Love Found
by Sage Pagan
Summary: Sequel to "Wanderer." Jaded vagabonds Hwoarang and Julia cross paths. Loveless, lost and polar opposites, they must find ways to survive together despite their differences. Slowly, everything changes-especially when Jin returns to reclaim what is his.
1. Taste of Freedom

That's a horrible summary I have out there, because the story line is much more complicated. Anyway, here it is, the sequel to "Wanderer", "Love Found" revived. Julia's story continues, but with a certain redhead to keep her company. This story was my first fic here on fanfiction, and it's being revised and edited since its original posting was atrocious; my writing style has changed immensely. Trust me, I was a terrible writer when I was fifteen. I've also shortened up the chapters so you guys aren't burdened with super long chapters. Though I'm not even close to being done with revising the whole thing, here's chapter one for my impatient readers out there. Also, though this is a Julia/Hwoa pairing, I'd like for you all to appreciate the _writing _instead of solely the pairings and characters. Lots of people on this site have forgotten to appreciate the quality of the writing nowadays and have limited themselves to pairings and nothing else. It's disappointing.

**Disclaimer**: As you all know, the characters in here aren't mine, they are Namco's, etc. etc. The quotes/song lyrics are also not mine, and belong to the artists/writers who created them.

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"_Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"…_

"…_You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that."_

- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

**Chapter 1: Taste of Freedom**

**Hwoarang **

The world flashes by in gasps of color, blurred scenery, whirls of chartreuse and neon yellow. The wind on the back of my neck, hot breath snarling in my ear, scrapes and pushes forward, wailing complaints as it carries the memories of places unknown. The grays of gravel dust rise as the road diminishes beneath the wheels of my bike, dust caking the mirrors. The sun, gentle, merciless, bronzes my skin, devours the red in my hair, throbs within my chest; the moon, quietly watching, keeps my secrets, sweeps away the sins of yesterday, soothes the scars and cloaks the flaws in shadow. The whines of a guitar in my ear, the taste of freedom, like _maekju_ on my tongue, burning its way down my throat, setting fire to my body. Intoxicates. The pleasure is bittersweet.

This freedom is all I really need. I love inhaling this air, real, tainted, untainted, poisoned, pure. I love the feel of the road, long and endless and unexplored, echoing with unasked, unanswered, questions.

None of them ever saw it like I did. But to hell with them.

"_Tie him down before he gets in trouble, Baek. He's too wild. Find him a girl or something."_

Too bad they were all wrong; nothing can keep me still. I've left them all behind cowering in fear and doubt in their little cardboard boxes, abandoned them for this solitude and these blue skies, where the horizon melds with the earth and where every new day has a different story to tell. I never did like their fences; they have too many. Too mundane. Too many boundaries. I prefer to experience the stories (or make them happen) rather than listen to them and wonder in silence. No regrets, just go. Make life more exhiliarating, because what's the use of living if you don't risk everything? Why live in fear and caution? You only live once, they say, and I intend to take advantage of it as much as I can before time devours everything.

It is the kind of life Baek frowns upon, the kind of life I have made for myself in the past two years: fast, reckless, foolish, dangerous, turbulent, thrilling, liberating. Every day, every night, I hunger for more. I hunger for that taste.

I like how the alcohol trails fire down my throat and numbs the memories. I like to swear, feel the words bursting forth, no secrets. I love to fight, I like money and girls and sex and most likely every other thing that you probably don't. People either love me or hate me, there's no in between. Girls tend to like the wild boys anyway, and guys, well, most of the times they don't know what to make of it. I like being that imperfection in your utopia, that stain of red on your white. It shocks, it offends, so hey, my work is done here.

If you don't like it then fuck off.

I am a man of flaws after all. I am marred. But I like flaws. They tell me I'm still living, _truly _living, that there's texture to things after all, that I've moved beyond boundaries.

So don't tell me that this is all wrong; I don't need your so called wisdom. Don't look at me like I'm an idiot, like I need reigning in. While you're holed up behind your fences, afraid, obedient, I have lived and laughed a thousand times over. And I don't intend to change things.

"_Aniyo, it's not that easy; he doesn't listen to me anymore. It is difficult, if not impossible, to tame a wolf." (a/n: no)_

_

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_

"Hola, Rafael. ¿Cómo estas?"

The old Hispanic man sighs wearily, wiping the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief. The sun is merciless even as evening approaches, glares down in a final light of defiance before the moon usurps it. Rafe squints up at me from his seat on the rickety wooden chair, then flashes a toothy smile, wiping oil-slicked fingers onto his jeans.

"Bien, bien. Y a ti?" he answers. _(a/n: Good, good. And you?)_

"Eh, así así," I sigh, hands crossed over my chest. _(Eh, ok)_

Rafael chuckles, sipping his lemonade. "¡Carumba, Hwoarang! Are you telling me that your life is finally dying down to _normalcy_? Wow. Now that's something."

Rolling my eyes, I switch to English, knowing that, with my lack of practice, I'd just end up butchering the Spanish language anyway. "Oh shut up."

Changing the subject, I inquired, "So what happened to you then, huh? Why this solitude? From what I've heard, you've retired from Tae Kwon Do. Why'd you quit!"

He smiled, holding out his hands. "Well, just look at me! Soy muy viejo—I'm very old. My body doesn't function the same anymore."

I laughed then, patting him on the back. "I don't envy you, man. You're missin' out."

Rafe's voice quieted as he asked, "And what about you, Hwoarang? Why don't you compete anymore? You're more than good enough."

I didn't bother to answer. We'd been through this conversation before and both knew the answer to that question, both were aware of why I didn't bother to fight anymore, in tournaments at least. After countless defeats by Jin Kazama, that Japanese piece of shit, and after another wasted year in the military, I hadn't bothered anymore. The only reason why I even joined Heihachi's stupid tournaments was to get a chance at fighting his grandson, and after so many pointless years of defeat, why the hell should I train for the Iron Fists when I could be doin' something better? Besides, I needed a break.

I know it's hard to believe. Hwoarang, the fiery, tenacious, borderline fanatic fighter has decided to retire from Jin Kazama for a bit in exchange for one really fucking long road trip. I smirk at the thought, and kick at the gravel beneath my feet, a small cloud of dust rising.

The old Hispanic smiles again though there is no humor in his eyes. He hadn't liked the idea of me quitting, even after all those shameful defeats; he disapproved of people who gave up in general. Well, I'm not one to give up, but I couldn't stand it anymore. Too many rules, too busy with the gang, too everything. Over the past months, I'd just realized how much of life I'd been missing because I'd been too damn consumed with defeating Jin Kazama. And now, on this Montana road, in the United States, I am finally beginning to enjoy all that I'd missed. I hope, anyway. But that doesn't mean that I'd completely forgotten about the Kazama bastard. One day, if I do happen to encounter Jin again, I'll finish what we'd started. No rules, no ref, just fists.

My thoughts stray from Jin as I inhale the familiar smell of gasoline and solitude; I haven't been here in seven years. I'd just turned fourteen back then, if I remember correctly, and the little junkyard of a place was surprisingly soothing. Baek took me here once to visit Rafe on one of his business trips, and I'd been thrilled to see "real live blonde girls with blue eyes" and all those long, smooth white legs American men seemed to go crazy about. Well, to be honest, I saw my share of blondes, blue eyes, and long, white legs—and wasn't too impressed. So _what_. Korean girls are way better, I'd told Baek once, and he hadn't been able to stop laughing.

Anyway. Today I am here for gas, at Rafe's old car and motorcycle repair shop, slash gas station, slash a cluttered but somehow cozy little coop for an old Hispanic. Rafael Menendez and Baek had been friends since before Baek began to take care of me, and he's always been like another father to me. And, like his martial arts, Rafe never did anything half ass either. When I asked for something, he did it thoroughly—just like that wash job he gave to my bike, which I didn't really need. Maybe he's so nice just 'cause I'm Baek's student, maybe because he's just that type of guy, or just maybe because he'll be nice to anyone he sees since his shop is located in the middle of nowhere. Poor Rafe is the only sign of civilization for miles (perhaps that's why he's so loco, eh?). He'd been elated when he saw me drive up to his store: a familiar face, a remnant of his past, a link to Baek and all those times before when things were well and real smiles were worn.

And a failure. A screw up. A vagabond with only his bike and his legs to keep him going.

"So where you headed now?" he asked, wiping away a bead of sweat with the back of his hand.

Sighing, I replied, "Meh, no where, as usual. But you know, same old plan: have fun, street fight, party, earn a little cash, eat, sleep, live, go…the usual."

I didn't feel like going into detail. The Hispanic man didn't approve of my lifestyle anyway.

Old Rafe laughs softly. "Un rebelde, eh? You always were the rebel." There's a note of sadness and distaste in his voice, but I ignore it.

"Yeah you could say that, but why not? Enjoy life, take advantage of it. You're only young once so you might as well have fun."

"True, but that doesn't mean be stupid. You have to be careful, son. One day this 'fun' you call it will lead to danger. Some important decisions will come your way."

"Yeah? Like what, Grand Master?" I joke.

"You know, sometimes you mustn't be so reckless and outspoken. Sometimes we learn the most from silence and patience," he said calmly.

"Mhm…I agree…" I mutter absentmindedly. Whatever, Rafe. It's all a load of bullshit. I'd heard enough of it from Baek, and was tired of the old redundancy.

"Just think about it, Hwoarang. Before you throw my advice into the wind, like you did countless times before, I want you to think about it," he said softly, and I resisted the desire to roll my eyes. I don't take advice from anyone, even if it is my mentor's best friend.

"Tell me, Rafe, how your advice will help me. I'm dying to know," I mocked, but either old Rafe didn't notice or didn't give a shit.

The old man sighs heavily. "Well, you speak of 'screwing' girls all the time. Why not wait for the right girl to come along? Patience helps you find real love."

Snorting, I finally did roll my eyes. Love? What's _that_? And who really gives a fuck about it?

"…then maybe you'll stop being so damn careless and enjoy what life has to offer you."

"In case you haven't noticed, I already am."

"You know what I mean, Hwoarang. Besides, perhaps with love, your loneliness won't be such a problem anymore."

Turning to glare at him, I snarl, "Hey, my life is perfectly _fine_, old man. I prefer to be alone."

Rafael raised a gray eyebrow my way, but did not say anything more. We both knew that was only half of the truth; the Hispanic knew he'd hit a soft spot—and I hated it.

"I always could see through your lies, Hwoarang. I know how lonely you've grown on the road. No mother to hold you, no father to teach you about being a man, no woman to—"

"Stop that. I don't need to remember," I muttered irritably, turning away. I've tried for a long time to push the truth away, and Rafe just went right along and pulled it all out again.

"Yes, you do. I know you try to forget it all, bury it away into that stone heart of yours, but it's useless; the hole will never be deep enough, Hwoarang."

I look away, my mouth dry.

"It is the past that molds us into the creatures we are today, Hwoarang. If we don't mend the mistakes, then there can only be bitterness and regret in the end."

"Be quiet. I already know what I have to do, and I've already 'mended' my mistakes."

"But with love—" he tried, but I interrupted him yet again.

"No! I can take care of myself, and I don't need some woman to mess up things. You should know by now that commitment ain't my thing," I interrupted.

"Who says you need a woman forever? All I'm saying is that you should wait to _experience_ love first before hating it so. Trust me, it will change things. It's different from what you look for in girls, Hwoa," he explained.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I grumbled in response.

"…it is better to have loved briefly than to never have loved at all," Rafael retorts, "Are you familiar with the saying?"

"Screw the saying. That's for the lonely and the desperate."

"And you are not lonely?"

"Nope."

Rafe laughs, a dry, mirthless sound. I listen to him, watch his shoulders shake, the hardening of his eyes, sun-beaten hands clenching into fists, and I know I've upset him. One thing Rafe hates more than failures are liars. But hell, I don't care. People should just let me live my own life and mind their own damn business.

This real love is a load of bull. After all, women are good for nothing except for a nice fuck once in awhile, and the hot ones do make great eye candy. Otherwise, women mean nothing to me, and, along with that, the ridiculous emotion Rafe keeps droning on about. It's merely a distraction, a weakness. I didn't come all this way to find "love."

"Hwoarang, there's much more a woman can offer you than sex."

"Yeah like what?"

"Find that out for yourself."

"I don't think you even know what you're talking about, _hombre viejo_," I smirked.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about. It's just that you refuse to listen."

Sighing, I didn't say anything to this comment, and instead gazed longingly out into the road.

"Look, Hwoarang," Rafe sighs after a moment, "I haven't many years left on this earth, and I want to tell a man how to be better. I want him to learn that life is not just about street brawls, sex, and easy money. That life in Korea is over, Hwoarang. It's time to move on, do you understand?"

"Sure I do! Now will you stop?"

He peered up into my face, knowing that his attempts to reason with me were futile, then looked away again. "All right, Hwoarang. But just remember that Baek, and maybe even your father, would have told you the same things. I'm just here to remind you."

I become silent at his words.

The Hispanic man tilts his head skyward, inhaling deeply. "I smell a thunderstorm coming. Every storm brings something new with it; it's a time of change."

Overhead, a white crane glides by, and I admire the way it seemed to disappear into the smoke-gray clouds, the sunlight dancing off the tips of its pale wings.

Remaining silent, I remember my father, Jahalang Lee Sun, and my mother, Sundok. I remember them vaguely, since the bad memories overpowered the good. _Uhmah_ wasn't stunning, but she was still pretty all the same, and since she was my mom I thought her to be the most beautiful woman. I remember how she used to sing lullabies to me before I went to sleep, the soft Korean melodies soothing me to slumber. As I close my eyes I can still feel, faintly, the feather-soft caress of her hand across my brow. I can still hear her gentle voice as she spoke to me of the dawn, of her day at work, of petunias and books, of little things, trivial, yet it was only her voice and her love that mattered. I used to listen then.

Then there is my father, Jahalang, a tall, imposing man with strong hands and small eyes. At a glimpse many are intimidated but he was loving, gentle, and treated my mother and me well. He could be stubborn sometimes, arrogant, self-pitying, but he loved me and I didn't care about his flaws at the time.

When I was only ten my mother abandoned my father and me. All she'd left us was a brief note explaining her absence, and I wondered why she'd even bothered. She'd run off with a man named Hyuga Tsumiyo, a fucking Japanese. Hell, my mom didn't even know how to speak Japanese! The bastard must've known Korean then...anyway, they'd met at my mother's work and decided to hell with us, to hell with her young son and her devoted husband, to hell with the old. To hell with love. Let's see some excitement, let's sleep with a stranger, let's forget all that we used to know; I guess Tsumiyo was just that great in bed.

Mom was no longer beautiful. She was a lie, a fake; she was a woman who'd seduced me into loving her. She was a flaw, and her blood ran through my veins; I was tainted too. I hated myself for a long, long time during those months, for I was ashamed that such a traitor was part of me, ashamed that even though she'd hurt me, deserted me, I still missed her, longed for her touch and her lullabies. Some would say that because I was young that type of reaction was expected; I was only ten after all. But that's not true. I was weak, dependent; I vowed never to be like that again.

When my father discovered the truth about what a two-timing bitch Mom was, he sank into a deep depression. On the contrary, I turned to bitterness and anger; I'm not one for tears and all that melodramatic shit my father loved to wallow in. At this time Tae Kwon Do and Baek's guidance helped release the rage, the pent up emotions that distorted reality, and without it I think I'd be slightly insane. Mothers who leave their children do that to you.

The next month Jahalang didn't come home and had left a note stating he'd gone out to find Hyuga Tsumiyo and _Uhmah_. He also claimed that he'd find me a new mother, as if mothers were objects that could easily be replaced. I hated those damn notes, those little pieces of paper, the black _hangul_ characters jeering, twisted; they came to me twice, those notes. And twice, I lost someone.

Nothing made sense in my ten-year-old mind. I was shocked and outraged at my father's lame, feeble attempts at mending the tears in our pathetic little family, but I realize now that he had been desperate. Jahalang had had absolutely no idea what to do to make his son happy. I believe that my father really did love me then, though he had a hard time showing it.

When Dad didn't come back for several months, I was taken in permanently by my martial arts instructor, Baek, and I never saw my father again. Over time I started to forget his face. Now that I think of it, Jahalang was never really there for me, but that doesn't change the fact that I still love him. At least he hadn't betrayed me. At least he had tried to help his son.

Then, when I was nineteen, Ogre attacked Baek. I can still see his crimson blood on my hands, hear his voice as he faded away…and now he's lying in a white hospital bed somewhere, alive, but alone and comatose…and I hadn't been able to do anything to help. When Baek was attacked I didn't think I could love anyone anymore.

Ever since I was fifteen I was supported by my gang members. They were there to guide me, got me through most of the rough times, offered their fists and legs for protection, and some good hard _maekju_ to numb things up when there was nothin' else. But it still wasn't the same. They never could understand, but I don't blame them. They weren't my real family after all, and that, at the time, was all that I really wanted. I guess it's nothing like the ties of blood, the real thing, you know? It all comes down to that in the end. Eventually, I abandoned gang life and moved on, fought in the tournaments, and ended up here, in the U.S., where nobody knew me and it was my turn to cause the pain, my turn to forget. _(maekju is beer)_

It's a shortened version, edited several times, but there it is, my glorious past.

My thoughts return back to what old Rafe had mentioned about girls and that shitty love crap. Usually, I won't turn down a good night in some stranger's embrace; there's nothing wrong with a nice fucking once in awhile, but there's never any love attached. Love is nonexistent for me. It is merely a thing, a word—like my mother. It means nothing, gives me nothing; I've given up on it ever since my mother left Jahalang and me. Nothing can come of it except pain and hardship, betrayal and deceit. I can thank Sundok for teaching me that.

That's all she is to me now: Sundok, a mere name, a whisper of something that shouldn't have been. An illusion. Life is full of damn illusions.

This "real love" as Rafe calls it is one of those illusions. For some it does exist, and it's hard to find, I know that much at least, but hey, I'm not looking anyway. Sometimes, I admit, a small part of me longs for it, or at least for a nice, genuine friendship. But that wolf in my stomach, that part that hungers and craves for the sky and for that open road, says simply, _to hell with it_. Sex and fistfights, that's all I really need. Well, maybe a little rock music and alcohol on the side to liven things up once in awhile, but that pretty much sums it up.

As for the past…ah hell, fuck the past. Why should it matter when you've got the present right under your feet and so many colored possibilities? Rafe says it is the past that makes us who we are today, and maybe the world agrees with him and maybe he's right. Well you know what the past has made out of me, Rafe? A survivor. A fighter. A man who moves forward, a man who finds strength from pain, a man who has learned that dwelling on the past and waiting around leads to no where.

Why be careful? Why mourn yesterday? Why linger on things that have already happened when there's always tomorrow to look forward to?

Every day the sun rises, so every day you get a second chance to start it over. It's a road made up of second chances; I can never have too many of those.

But second chances with_ sarang ha_? Well, you already know the answer to that one. _(a/n: love)_


	2. Rain of Change

**Chapter 2: Rain of Change **

_"Every Indian learns how to be a magician and learns how to misdirect attention and the dark hand is always quicker than the white eye and no matter how close you get to my heart you will never find out my secrets and I'll never tell you and I'll never show you the same trick twice. I'm traveling heavy with illusions." _

–Sherman Alexie, _The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight In Heaven_

"_With some people, solitariness is an escape not from others but from themselves…" _

- Eric Hoffer

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**Hwoarang**

I leave Rafe's place about an hour later. The sky weeps in thick, fat teardrops, the black clouds rumbling like the belly of a beast, lightning crisscrossing the clouds occasionally, illuminating Montana in white with their brilliance. The world is seen in quick little snapshots, like flashes of a strobe light, blinding. Like a snarling bass guitar, the thunder roars, reverberating in my chest.

Now that's one hell of a rock concert.

After zipping up my leather jacket, I glare at the dismal road ahead of me. Ah damn, why hadn't I worn my sweatshirt? The rain soaks my body, I'm freezing, but I keep driving anyway. I never should have left Rafe's place. The wise old geezer had been right when he'd said he smelled rain.

My black leather gloves crinkle and wheeze as I grip the handles hard and speed onward into the downpour. There should be a motel up here if my memory is correct, but it's too dark to tell. The sky groans once more as thunder ravages it and the rain thickens, plastering my hair to the sides of my face, the wetness trailing rivulets of water down my cheeks and neck into my shirt collar. Just wonderful.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, up ahead, I see a figure standing alone on the side of the road, a woman by the looks of it. On her back she carries a tattered backpack and her clothes, a faded red sweatshirt and blue jeans, are just as soaked as I am. Her hood hides her face, and I wonder why the hell she's out here by herself. Psycho hitchhiker? Some poor prostitute looking for another customer? I'd met a lot of those, but the latter was probably unlikely. After all, hookers prowled oily city streets, not beaten up high ways with nothing but miles of forests and mountains around. But whatever reason it happened to be, I dismiss the thought and pass her by. It's her fault she got caught in the rain. Too fucking bad.

As I drive by, she looks up the same moment lightning zigzags across the clouds, and I get a full view of her face. The blinding white light gives her an eerie, ghostly appearance but I am drawn in anyway. Drenched, dark hair plastered to her face and water-spattered glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, she looks pretty hopeless. Other than the fact that she is utterly pathetic, her eyes, though partially hidden behind those glasses, are desperate, frightened. Lips parting she yells into the night, "Wait!" A faint plead for help, barely audible within the shrieks of the storm, but present nonetheless.

Glancing into my rearview mirror I see her dark figure run towards my bike in a futile attempt to hail me back, see her standing in the middle of the flooded road staring at my receding taillights…Ah _damn it_. I'm not the sympathetic type (each man for himself, too bad if you're fucked) but I just can't leave her like that, especially when I'm probably the only person who can help her now.

Turning my bike around violently, I head for the woman again, water splashing and spraying about my legs as I speed towards her. Skidding to a stop, I shout above the din of the thunderstorm, "Hey! You need a ride?" What a stupid question; of course the girl needed a lift.

After a moment she nodded, and, adjusting her backpack, swung one leg over the seat behind me. Smiling, I noticed she kept her arms to herself, her hands instead clutching at the slippery seat beneath her. So she was a shy one, eh? Well, she needs to hold on tighter if she intends to stay on board through the rain.

Before I accelerate I turn around to look at her. She's attractive, possibly even pretty—in a rain-drenched, cold, shivering kind of way. Her full lips, pale from the cold, are drawn into a hard frown and her glasses only added to her allure, shielded the secrets in her eyes, and I wondered what had happened to her to give her such a gloomy look. I must have been staring because she flicked her eyes to meet mine. I hadn't expected a fiery glare, but that's what I got, and that flared the interest in me even more. She then looked away briefly and pulled her hood farther over her head.

Shaking these thoughts away I finally said, "Yeah you might want to hold on. It can get pretty slick." I added a smile to reassure her but it must have come out wrong because I got another glare. What did she think I was, a rapist? But hell I couldn't blame her. Meeting strange men on the road alone at night, hitching a ride…yeah, I couldn't blame her. But _she_ was to blame for being a stupid girl and getting herself trapped in the rain. A hot stupid girl, that is.

At first she hesitated then reached for my waist, clasping her hands tightly around my stomach. Turning back around I relished the feel of her against me, and the heat she gave off despite the cold rain. When her grip began to loosen slightly I purposely accelerated and laughed when she clung to me. It gets the shy ones every time.

When the green, rundown motel finally showed into view seven minutes later the rain still hadn't stopped, relentlessly pounding the earth. Pulling into the parking lot, I turned to the woman once more.

"We're stopping here for tonight. You're on your own from now on," I grunted. I felt kind of bad for being so harsh to her, but I didn't want her to get all clingy and get stupid ideas just because I'd rescued her. The last thing I want is some strange woman to mess up things.

She nods without looking at me and dismounts. Well, she has awfully nice legs, I know that much, and, cocking my head slightly, I examine her even more. Nice ass too. Either that, or those jeans are magic.

"Thanks," she grumbles and made her way through the rain to the door.

I followed her, having nowhere else to go, and stood behind her as she asked for a room.

"Well," the man at the counter said, "I've only got one room available. Are you two together?"

She and I glanced at each other briefly, her eyes afire; I could almost feel the disgust and disappointment from her, and bit back a grin. "Not really. Are there two beds?" I replied.

The man nodded and burped. Relief radiated in waves from the woman but I was a little disappointed. I wouldn't have minded sleeping in the same bed with this girl, not at all.

The man gave each of us a dingy, grime-crusted copper key and showed us to our room.

"Enjoy your stay," he muttered under his breath before shuffling off.

The woman went in first without a backward glance in my direction and threw her bag on the bed nearest the door. Sighing she began to take off her drenched sweatshirt, exposing her midriff…unfortunately, she quickly noticed me staring. Smoothing it back down, the glare returned to her face as her eyes narrowed. Well, she didn't intimidate me one bit, and I continued to stare, my eyes roving up and down her figure shamelessly. Smooth curves, muscled thighs, slender waist, perhaps five foot five…

"You mind?" she growled, adjusting the glasses on her nose.

"What?" I said, feigning ignorance as I removed my leather jacket and tossed it aside. This angered her even more, and I suppressed a smile. She was way too fun to mess with.

"I'm sure you've seen lots of girls before, but I'm just not one of those who'll spread her legs at the sight of any decent looking guy," she snarled, crossing her arms, "Now, do you _mind_ not looking at me that way?"

So I was "a decent looking guy." I stifled my smile again; this girl was feisty. Nice. It was good to finally meet a girl with spirit instead of a slut looking for an easy lay. Easy girls bored me nowadays.

"Sorry," I replied, looking away reluctantly, "My name's Hwoarang by the way."

Completely ignoring the introduction, the woman turned to me, eyes narrowed, but her voice had managed to soften a bit. "Look, I'm grateful for the ride and the motel. But if you try to hurt me…"

"Or what?" I challenged, taking a step toward her, amused at how she took a tiny step back in retreat.

Her eyes flashed with something like amusement, and she met my gaze with a hard glare. "You don't want to know what I did to the last guy who made a move on me."

Nevertheless, I continued to advance. "Maybe I do."

She paused, then sighed and stepped around me, probably realizing that I wasn't worth the time. Seizing her bag she entered the bathroom and bolted the door loudly, swiftly, almost as if she expected me to break it down and attack her. Well, she obviously didn't know me. I might enjoy a good fuck once in awhile, and although women are no more than sex objects, I'd never rape one. Seriously, I wouldn't. Only cowards did that.

A few minutes later she emerged in sweatpants and a snug white T-shirt that clung to the sleek curves of her waist. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun and a few unruly strands hung over her eyes. Somehow in this messy state she was even more appealing—one of those rare natural beauties.

"So…you got a name?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Sure," she replied. Reaching into her bag she took out a thick book and opened it, pages crackling. Adjusting her glasses she made herself comfortable in a moldy looking armchair in the corner of the room.

"What I mean is, what's your name?"

Still she did not answer but just began to read her damn book. Were all women like this? Unexpectedly, the anger began to rise within my chest.

"Fine, I'll give you one. So…Soo Ra…how's it goin'?"

All she did was continue to read, a stray bang falling into her face.

"It's a Korean name…" I said, trying and failing to make her speak. The woman turned a page in her book, refusing to acknowledge my statement.

"What are you mute?" I cried in frustration, trying for her attention once more—and finally got it.

She looked up from her book, brown eyes afire. "You must think you're pretty funny don't you Korean Boy?"

I let out a small laugh. "At times, yes."

"Well, have you ever heard the saying, Hwoarang, that goes 'he talks a lot but says very little?'"

"Yeah, and?"

"That's you," she stated flatly, then returned to her damn book.

Smirking, I replied, "Well aren't we feeling friendly today." The woman merely turned another page, and I tried, to no avail, to restrain my frustration.

After a moment she said, "I didn't know Korean's came with red hair."

"Yeah, they kind of messed up in the assembly line. Ran out of black ink."

I chuckled, but she only flashed me that glare again. Was she seriously that uptight? Jeez. "I was kidding…I wanted to be different, you know. The typical black and brown Asian hues were getting on my nerves, so I changed it. I was thinking about blue next time, what do'ya think?"

"Sure…whatever," was her monotonous reply.

"Yeah…" I trailed off. She wasn't much of a conversationalist; this was the first time a woman wasn't mooning over me and giving me all of her attention. I didn't know what to make of it. What the hell was wrong with this woman anyway? And what the hell was wrong with _me_ for trying so hard to obtain her attention?

After that the room was quiet once more. Outside the door I could hear the man at the desk talking rapidly in German on the phone, and through the wall I could hear the soft sounds of lovemaking. When I heard this I flicked my eyes in the woman's direction just to see her reaction, and she gave me the finger with a steely gaze; well, she already knew how my brain worked, didn't she? I couldn't help but laugh; her attempts at driving me away were only bringing me closer.

"Hey, I'm sorry for being stupid," I said, "you obviously don't like small talk; a woman of few words. I understand."

A peculiar thing happened then—she smiled briefly, then drew her mouth down again as if it had never been, and I was confused all over again. Normal people don't act like this, not to me anyway.

What had happened to this poor woman?

"All of us are capable of stupidity, Hwoarang…" she answered, and her voice had a faraway tone to it, as if that statement meant more than she intended. However, I dismissed it, relishing instead how she said my name.

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, will you just tell me your name? It ain't that difficult. Are you ashamed of it, is that it?"

As expected, she refused to reply.

Sighing in frustration, I said, "Look, you can even tell me a false name all right? I just need to call you something besides 'you' or 'hey girl.' That's all. It's just a name, for God's _sake_."

Slowly, the woman turned to me, her book closing in her lap. Cocking her head, I watched as recognition spread across her face. "Wait a minute. I think I know you."

"What?" How could she know me when I'd never seen her before?

The woman shook her head in disbelief, and I thought I saw the faint beginnings of a smile tug at her lips again. "Yeah, I remember now. You're that guy who got defeated by Jin Kazama. You were eliminated in the last round at the fifth Iron Fist Tournament. Am I right?"

My face burning, I mumbled, "That's me." I thought being in the States would give me some anonymity. Guess not.

She glanced up briefly then returned to her volume. "I'm sorry for being rude. Kazama's an ass anyway. I was in the tournament too."

"Really? So what's your style?" A fighter, eh? Even better.

"It's a mix of Chinese martial arts."

"How'd you learn to fight?"

"My…my mother taught me."

Her voice caught and I looked up, noticing how she unsuccessfully attempted to disguise the pain in her face. So something bad _did_ happen to this woman…

"And you?" she asked shakily, diverting the conversation away from her mother.

"Tae Kwon Do."

She nodded, looked me over once again, then asked, "And were you recently at a bar, you know, a bar for bikers down in Wyoming?"

Whoa, this was beginning to get strange. Maybe she actually was some creepy stalker that had been following me the whole time. "Uh, how'd you know about that?"

She shrugged. "I was traveling by there before I came here, and a friend told me about you…and you beat up the bartender. Badly." She then flashed me an accusing look.

"Yeah that was me, but hey, that bastard was a racist son of a bitch! He refused to give me a refill 'cause he thought I was from that 'dog-eatin country China'—which I'm not! So he totally deserved that ass-kicking," I cried.

The woman shook her head. "Ok, I missed that part. If that's true, then I guess the guy deserved it."

"No shit," I snorted, crossing my arms. Shaking my head, I could already feel the rage as the memory replayed itself in my mind.

I remembered that moment clear as day too. On my way to Rafe's shop, I'd stopped at _Raleigh's_, a little bar in Wyoming that mainly attracted bikers such as myself. I'd never been there before, but decided to give it a shot. Being a fellow biker, I automatically assumed that I'd be welcomed immediately and not looked upon as an outsider. Well, it was quite the contrary. All I wanted was a refill, a simple request, one a bartender is supposed to see to, right? As it turned out, Raleigh, the owner and bartender, happened to be a good-for-nothing racist bastard, and wouldn't give me what I wanted. It all went to hell from there. I started swearing, he started cursing too, he shoved me away from the bar—big mistake—and then very soon I found my legs doing the talking. I was so pissed off old Raleigh had to be hospitalized, and I left before anyone could call the cops.

Staring over at the woman as the memory began to disappear, I wondered again how she'd known about that. Odd girl she was.

Then, after what seemed an eternity she finally said, "I'm Julia."

The name fit her and rolled off my tongue nicely. "Julia, Julia. Nice name."

"Not really," she sighed, looking up from her novel, "pretty plain if you ask me."

"Nah, it's cool."

She paused for a moment, then uttered, "Or you can call me Ajijawk if you want."

"Ah-ji-jawk…that's different. Does it mean anything?" I asked.

"…no, not really."

She was probably lying. A unique name like that has a meaning all right, but I let it go; she's allowed to have secrets too—to a point, that is.

"Oh. Well it's a sweet name anyway."

"Not really. It's common among my people."

"Interesting. A common name for a woman anything but common."

She flashed me that notorious glare of hers again, but I noticed with pleasure the slight blush on her cheeks. Why were some women so afraid of compliments anyway?

Giving her another look, I noticed a thick band of silver on her wrist, the metal weathered and scratched with age. A leather necklace bound her throat, holding a large stone of turquoise in its center, and more turquoise beads adorned her wrists alongside brown leather ties. On her backpack key chain a single golden-white feather dangled, the edges frayed and damp with rainwater.

Nomad. Stranger. Intriguing. And _Indian_?

"Native American?" I questioned.

"Yes," she replied without looking up.

"Wow, an Indian. Never thought I'd meet one." She didn't have the traditional look of an Indian; I'd say more Asian. But she sure was plenty tan and golden, and her hair was dark and long.

"You don't look Indian." I was being bold, maybe a little rude, but I figured this was the only way she was going to open up a little. I'd find a way to make her reveal her secrets later. The only thing that bothered me as of now was why I was so interested in this strange woman.

"I know. My mother was half Navajo and my father's Chinese," she replied curtly before adjusting the glasses on her nose.

"I was guessing you had some Asian in you. Where do you live originally anyway?" I asked.

Julia slammed her book shut, finally meeting my eyes.

"You sure like to ask questions, Hwoarang," she snarled, and I smiled, relishing again the way she said my name.

"And you sure love not answering, don't you?" I retorted.

I hate it when women are mysterious on purpose like this…but then again, with Julia it didn't seem intentional. And it kind of…turned me on. And it was annoying.

Well Hwoarang, if you keep this up, you're pretty much fucked.

"Good night," Julia muttered in return, flipping the blanket open on her bed. I made a move to climb in next to her, and then stopped when she flashed me that fierce look of hers.

"Oh right," I murmured, grinning in delight at how upset I was making her.

Reluctantly, I climbed into the other bed and turned off the light. I lied there for a moment, listening to the peaceful rhythm of her breathing. I realized then that, after having been alone for such a long time, it felt odd to be in the company of another person. But I enjoyed it all the same, and stared into the darkness as the rain pelted the roof above us.

"Hey," I whispered after a moment.

"What," she murmured, aggravated.

"Where you headed?"

"Away. Nowhere. Anywhere."

Surprised, I shifted in bed. Well there was one thing we had in common, if she was serious anyway.

"Really? Me too, no joke. Well, ah, you could stay with me until you decide on a destination and I'll take you to it. How 'bout it?" I offered.

The silence was so long, I thought she'd fallen asleep. But finally, from the darkness I heard her utter, "I travel alone. I don't even know you."

"Oh come on, Julia, it'll be fun. I'm a nice guy. Besides, it looks like you need an adventure anyway," I laughed. I really wanted to get to know her more…wait _what_?

"That's kind of you, Hwoarang, but I'm afraid I've had my fill of 'adventures.' I prefer…an escape…" she replied.

Her voice was harsh, knife-sharp, but it was the words that struck something in me. Why was she sharing this with someone like me?

"Sure, that's cool too. See you in the morning."

"Yeah," she whispered, and we were quiet once more.

**Julia**

As I lie there pretending to sleep, I listened to the soft whisper of the rain against the windows. I listened to Hwoarang's breathing as it deepened, and to the hum of my heartbeat. For reasons unknown, I remembered Mexico all of a sudden, the tamales and the salsa verde, the sun kissed, smiling boys, the Spanish words dancing on my tongue…

_Ayudame. Ayudame. No puedo volar…no puedo… (a/n: Help me…I can't fly.)_

Memories, memories. Your mother's gone, the tortillas grow stale, and you're nothing but a flightless bird in the sky. Falling. Nobody to catch you, the red canyons swallow your heart whole. Disappear. Coyote waits…

Though obnoxious and cocky and though his eyes tended to wander where it shouldn't, the Korean man seemed decent enough—for the time being. He had offered me transportation and hadn't tried to attack me, so maybe this time I could trust a little…no. No, no, no; don't be a fool, Julia. You can't trust anyone. It is the only reason why you've survived this long, remember? Right.

It's terrible and it's true: in this world, in these times, one can only trust oneself. Jin instilled that within me.

Lying in bed, I recalled Hwoarang's hair, unusual, like the color of the canyons under a blazing sun, like blood on white. Like fire, a beacon of light in the darkness. Like the wounds in my memories, raw and vibrant and alive. I had seen this color before…

I didn't remember everything of him in detail because I'd only gotten glances (eye contact gives them too many false ideas), but I did remember the hair, and the muscled abdomen as I'd held onto his waist during the ride to the motel…oh stop it.

With disgust, I also remembered telling him my Native American name and my reason for being alone. Murmuring a curse under my breath, I knew that I'd revealed too much; now I was vulnerable. Now, like all the others before him, he wouldn't stop prying, wouldn't stop with the questions. I never should have accepted his help in the first place. I never should have opened my mouth.

Should have, could have. That's how I live nowadays.

But, recalling that fire in his eyes, I sensed something in him, something that made me glad that he, of all people, had been the one to rescue me from the storm. There was something intriguing and lonely about him, something exciting, alive and wild, something I hadn't tasted in a long, long while. I didn't quite know how to describe it, but it was there all the same and I hated myself for being drawn in so easily.

It didn't help that I had seen the wolf when the Korean had rescued me. At the moment he stopped beside me on the road, the rain coming down hard, I had seen it's feral beauty in Hwoarang, seen the yellow eyes stare back at me from the human irises. I had seen the black wolf before, in my dreams and visions, and he always brought peace with him whenever he came. But why he decided to come when Hwoarang was there perplexes me.

Maybe I'm just so desperate for some sign of change, some sign of progress, that anything will seem like that black wolf, that beacon of peace. Julia, you're such a fool. You've been running for too long. You're blind. _(a/n: black wolf? If some of you are confused at this point, don't worry, I'll explain it later on in the story…or you can simply read "Wanderer," the prequel_

Closing my eyes, I blocked the wolf and the Korean man from my mind and instead listened to the thunderstorm waging war outside the windows. The world shook with each furious roar of thunder, and it felt as if the fragile glass panes would burst. Lightning painted the sky white, felled the strongest of the trees, yet the motel remained intact. I opened my eyes and listened to Hwoarang's breathing once more, and, for reasons unknown to me, felt completely safe for a few fleeting seconds. He shifted in his sleep, turned my way, and as the lightning illuminated the room, I caught glimpses of his face. Eyes closed, brows furrowed, full mouth frowning, hair tousled, long fingers clenched about the sheets. Flashes of white, a red stain, and something foreign germinating within me, a strange feeling, like a moth in my belly, unsure, fluttering erratically.

But then…only shadows. Caution. Silence. Paranoia. Distrust. The moth died for the time being, and Hwoarang became just another ordinary, untrustworthy man once more. The walls erected themselves around me again.

The room was cold, very cold, and I burrowed myself further beneath the blanket, staring out into the darkness behind my eyes. My fists clutched the sheets, legs curled, and I wanted to disappear. I wanted to become the rain and the earth beneath it, wish I could become the storm and ride the lightning so I could vanish and stop this running, stop being so afraid. The rain began to slow some, softly now, as if cleansing Mother Earth of her wounds, soothing her hurts. But the earth's wounds, like mine, could never be fully healed; she would have scars, endless fields of them. The Earth changed, and with her, I did as well.

Her lakes and rivers are toxic, killing her fish and poisoning the deer that drink from the water. The wolves no longer wander where they wish but have been forced to cower in the shadows, singing their songs of sorrow. The majestic buffalo dwindle, and the nightingales have moved on. Even the scraggly coyote suffer, mad grins behind lolling tongues. Now there are wires running in between the trees in the forest, and everyday they cry in agony as they are torn from their home. What remains of these great forests are now just ragged stumps and a yellow, sick, barren wasteland. And then, to top it all off, there is this new climate, this new, unnatural warmth that breeds a desert, a desert that is slowly devouring my home. Soon it will reign and the trees and valleys will be choked with fields of gold and burning death. What remains of my earth?

What remains of my heart? Will I surrender to the encroaching desert? Or will I make it rain?

I thought about the earth for a long time. I thought about a black wolf with yellow eyes and a white crane with blood on her feathers. I thought about a traitorous gray coyote and a squalling crow, about silent flutes and red irises staring back at me from the shadows. I thought about red hair and red acrylic paint…

My mind was a collage of meaningless symbols, a mirage of fragments of a life before, shards of dreams. Lost hopes.

Black feathers fall from the sky. The moon bleeds. A crane with broken wings and a wolf choking on its own howl. Fear and silence, coyote grin. Trust and a razorblade heart, an endless journey, the sand painting is obliterated. And out there, beneath it all, fading, flickering, a single candle flame; I reach for it. It's all I have.

Outside, as the rain quieted, a wolf called into the night. Moaned. Sought…or was that the call of a coyote I heard?

The forest came alive and yellow eyes beckoned me forth.

Maybe I'm going crazy; my thoughts didn't make sense anymore. Maybe all of this wasn't happening, and maybe Hwoarang was actually made up.

Maybe the one fear that everyone shares is to be eternally alone. Yes, I believed it now. See how the loneliness destroys…see how it warps…

Clutching at the bed sheets, I felt the loneliness gnaw away at my belly.

"Michelle," I whispered into the night. Hwoarang shifted and murmured in his sleep. A sob escaped suddenly from my mouth, and I clapped a trembling hand to my lips. Damn. I'd allowed myself release, emotion; that couldn't happen if I wanted to remain sane and strong. Ever since the Mishima family took my mother from me, I have vowed revenge. But first I had to find safety somehow, a stronghold before I struck back.

Yawning, I succumbed to sleep and allowed myself to be taken into my dreams. A small smile formed on my lips as I remembered Michelle's face and her voice.

_Hush…hush…do not fear the loneliness for I am here with you…_


	3. Different

This chapter has been sitting in my computer for months on end, and I'm kind of sick of seeing it there. It isn't the best chapter and I'm really not satisfied with the end product (when am I ever satisfied?), but quite honestly, I need to move on and edit the next dozen chapters so I can finish this freakin' fic and work on something else. Sorry. Writer's block and poorly written stories on this site are taking its toll.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Different**

"_There's nothing terribly wrong with feeling lost…too often a person grows complacent with their disillusionment, perpetually wearing their 'discomfort' like a favorite shirt." _

--Jhonen Vasquez

**Julia**

My eyes slowly opened then immediately shut at the invading sunlight probing through the yellow tinted windows. Groaning, I turned my head from the unfamiliar brightness, like a night bird tasting the sun for the first time. I must've been really tired; I'm usually awake before dawn.

Turning I noticed that Hwoarang's bed was empty. From the bathroom I heard the shower running and his soft singing, and I couldn't help but smile. It had been such a long time since I'd had human contact other than the brief "hi"'s and "excuse me"'s or "can you point me to this road" and such. He seemed not to possess a worry in the world, and I didn't understand it. How could anyone be so reckless? So happy?

I took a second to stretch, enjoying the feel of my taut, sore muscles relaxing…and then yelped in shock as I noticed Hwoarang standing at the foot of my bed, watching my every move, eyes dark with interest.

"Well, have you seen enough?!" I exclaimed, heaving myself out of bed. Thank the spirits I was wearing long pants.

"Hey, a guy knows a nice body when he sees one," he drawled with a smirk.

"Control yourself. I don't want to have to hurt you."

Hwoarang smiled slowly and once again his eyes roved up and down my body. I felt myself blushing and turned away so he wouldn't see. "Yeah? Maybe I want you to," was his soft reply.

Facing him I noticed that he only had a towel on, wrapped low on his hips. I looked away, blushing furiously. He had a perfect body, muscular and toned to the last detail, a waist lean and tapered...goddamn it. He distracted me too much. I knew I was better off by myself.

Suddenly he was standing right behind me, and I was all too aware of his heat.

"By the way, I found this in the bathroom," he murmured.

He wagged a leather-sheathed knife in my face. So _that's_ where I'd put it.

"Gimme that," I growled, snatching my buffalo knife from his long fingers.

"It's a good knife. You make it, little Indian?"

"Yes," I replied, "and will you stop referring to my people as Indian? _Indians_ are from India."

"Right, right. But I thought girls didn't fight, weren't allowed to be warriors," he said, "so how could you possibly own such a sweet knife?"

Was he that dumb? At least Jin had been slightly intelligent when I'd conversed with him…don't think about that.

"Look, my mother knew that I was perfectly capable of kicking a boy's ass, so she taught me how to fend for myself. Times have changed. In this era, you know, 'modern time,' women are _finally_ obtaining some ounce of the respect and equality we deserve. Obviously you're still behind," I sneered, but I didn't get the response I'd hoped for.

Instead of taking offense, the man merely laughed and barreled on with his questions. My insults had no effect on him. He was too curious for his own good, too wild, and his laid-back demeanor annoyed—yet, regardless to my frustrations, fascinated—me at the same time.

"You got yourself a wicked tongue there, Jiji. I like that."

"_Jiji?"_ Was he serious? I hadn't had a nickname since high school, and I wasn't planning on developing a new one.

"Yeah, you know, short for Ajijawk or whatever. You like it?"

"The name's Julia," I growled. I was surprised he even remembered my Navajo name. Guys like him usually did it the quickest way possible: fuck the girl—get in, get out. No names, no questions asked, no emotions.

But he hadn't done that. He'd left me alone (somewhat), but hell, he wouldn't stop _talking_.

"All right, all right, I was jus' playin'. But do you know how to use anything else?" he asked, genuinely curious as he eyed my buffalo knife again.

"Archery, spear throwing…" I answered absentmindedly in hopes of shutting him up, and I quickly gathered my things.

"I thought we had guns now," he smirked, "the days of teepees and braves are over, Jiji. What's the point?"

I peered over at him, remembering that I had said something similar when Michelle had forced me to learn the old ways. Recalling my childhood, I could still remember when I had reluctantly learned how to throw a spear, how I'd given my mother such a hard time when learning the traditional arts of fighting practiced by my people. It had taken a few years for me to finally learn to appreciate them.

Adjusting my glasses, I finished, "And if we have guns now Hwoarang, then why are you still practicing Tae Kwon Do? Maybe you're just too scared of guns, huh?"

His eyes smoldered. Ah, that ego. I had him this time.

"For your information, _smart-ass_, I was in the Korean army for a year, not to mention a gang leader for six," he sneered, "so I've had my full experience with guns. I just don't like them."

Ooh, a thug _and_ a heartless ex-soldier.

"Whatever. And you know...I know those days of 'teepees' are over, as you so crudely put it. But one can't forget where one came from."

"And what if you don't want to remember where you came from?" he asked softly.

Pausing, I hadn't expected this kind of answer from him. "Why wouldn't you want to remember your roots? Your family history? It's all you truly have. Without that you're basically nothing."

The Korean man shrugged. "I disagree, Jiji--"

"Julia."

He smirked, raising his hands in surrender. "Ok, _Julia_--I disagree. A person alway has something else."

"Like what?"

"Shit, I don't know. I'm not one of those damn philosopher types. I don't really think about that kind of stuff," he retorted, suddenly defensive, and the conversation died. He looked away, pretending to be occupied with straightening out the bed.

But somehow, while I watched him fuss with the sheets, scarlet bangs tousled and mouth pressed into a hard line, I felt that Hwoarang knew exactly what he was talking about. Though wild and carefree, he too harbored secrets. He too had known loneliness. Solitude had endless lessons to bestow, and Hwoarang and I both had had our full share of them. Though there were some aspects to this crazy man that I definitely disliked, there was something else amidst it all that was devastatingly attractive. He came from a totally different world than I did.

Then again, that was exactly how I'd felt when I'd first met Jin Kazama, and look where that path had taken me.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Korean man eyeing me as he pulled a fitted black T-shirt over his head. The towel disappeared too and I looked away quickly. Unfortunately, he noticed and took his time putting on his boxers and jeans.

"So...do you _think _at all?" I retorted, disguising my intrigue for him with a scathing remark.

Hwoarang chuckled as he dried his hair with a swift tousle of his towel.

"I don't think this trip is going to go well if you and I don't get along, babe," he smirked.

"Who said I was going?" I said flatly, meeting his fiery gaze.

He smiled again, amused, and approached me until we were face to face. I caught his scent: clean, fresh, earthy…_good_. I inhaled deeply but discreetly and felt slightly dizzy. He was standing so close I could count the pores on his face. I was so close I could have rearranged his jaw with one punch. But I controlled it, sidestepping him.

But Hwoarang had other plans. He seized my wrist, pulling me backward towards him, and I saw his leg rise in a roundhouse. The bastard was testing me. Swiveling my head I dodged his kick and landed a punch in his gut. Hwoarang grunted in pain, but smiled.

"What do'ya know, she _is_ a fighter. Not bad, Jules, not bad. But let's try that one again," he grinned, and came at me once more. He'd underestimated me last time, and this time watched his step.

I lunged but he dodged, swiveling away smoothly, rhythmically bouncing on the balls of his feet. I lunged again, fists clenched, but he kicked me hard in the shin; it would have been the kneecap if I hadn't moved quickly enough. After lashing out several times, my elbow strike finally caught him in the chest. He grunted, but did not allow me any more contact. Every blow I sent towards him he dodged with ease and grace, fluidly avoiding my attacks.

"Come on, Hwoarang, you afraid to hit a girl?" I sneered, "I know you're better than that. I've heard about your fights with Jin."

"No. It's just that this particular girl knows how to hit back. Besides, it's funny watching you trying to hit me," was his confident reply.

Crying out in fury I found an opening and released a vicious jab to his jaw. He wobbled slightly and I took the opportunity to shove him onto the bed. Straddling him, I unsheathed my dagger and pressed the blade against his ridged throat.

"You're gonna be eating silver if you don't stop screwing around," I threatened, "I've had enough with guys like you."

What I got from him was another goddamn smile, white teeth flashing, eyes laughing. Did he enjoy this? Was he just that fucked up or just plain kinky? I was only amusing him. Oh spirits.

In disgust, I released him, grabbed my bag, and headed for the bathroom. Behind me I could feel his eyes and his triumphant grin.

**Hwoarang**

"So what's your story?" I asked.

"What's there to tell?"

"Lots. You gotta have a reason for joining that tournament and for why you're out here alone. Now, what's your story?"

She hesitated, avoiding my gaze. "I needed some adventure."

Julia was real cute, but a terrible liar.

"Bullshit. You just told me last night that that was exactly what you didn't want. More like 'escape' right? That jog your memory some?"

From her instant silence I knew she'd screwed up. She knew it too, and didn't answer my question.

Instead, Julia eyed me coldly and brought her coffee mug to her mouth for a half-hearted sip. I had to find a way for her to open up. I was used to girls who revealed everything to me right away. It was the Hwoarang charm that always got them, but somehow it wasn't working with Julia. It was going to take a lot of time and effort on my part if I wanted to get to know her. But that was ok; I always liked a challenge and I had a feeling she'd be worth the wait. After all, she was way different from most of the girls I'd known. She was independent, a quality many of my ex girlfriends had lacked. On the contrary, the girls I'd dated had hooked onto me like freakin' lampreys, and refused to give me any space; I hated that. They were always so goddamn needy. But, looking at this woman in front of me...I knew she really didn't need anything but herself---at least, that's what she'd trained herself to believe. And that was both intriguing and saddening at the same time.

Julia's gaze wandered to the window, where she watched the cars fly by on the freeway. Unlike other girls, she wasn't afraid to talk back to me, and I didn't think it was because she lacked respect. She just didn't tolerate bullshit when she encountered it, ha, ha. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, no matter how scathing and cruel her remarks. In my opinion, if she wasn't so lonely and wounded, she would have known how to hold her tongue when it was appropriate. But I think this particular gal's experienced so much shit that she now sees worth in nothing but that family she once possessed. So why give a rat's ass about other people's feelings, right? It's a pity really.

Passionate yet cold, distant, fire and ice. Shy to the point of antisocial, yet outspoken and bold when the occasion called for it. What was she exactly?

Then I remembered how her eyes had turned sad at the mention of her mother.

"Does it have to do with your mom?" I asked. At the obvious flicker of pain in her eyes and the tightening of her hand on the coffee mug, I instantly wished I'd kept my damn mouth shut. Of course it had to do with her mother, idiot.

"You need to learn to mind your own business," she whispered. Julia tried to sound threatening, but there was a quaver to her voice.

"My bad. I will from now on," I said though I highly doubted it; she was too intriguing.

"So what's yours then, Hwoarang?" she inquired.

"What?"

"Your story."

"Oh." Careful, Hwoarang.

"A few years ago Ogre attacked my Tae Kwon Do instructor and mentor. Baek was the closest thing to a father to me and I was devastated the day he was attacked. He's in a coma now, and I don't even know how he's doing. That's the big reason why I fight in Heihachi's tournaments all the time. And uh…yeah that's it." Well, that was only half of my story. Julia didn't need to know the other half, the one that involved my rival, Jin Kazama.

"That was three years ago, Hwoarang. _Now_ why do you fight?" Apparently she sees through everything.

"Well…for fun, I guess," I explained slowly.

We both knew I was lying but thankfully Julia stopped with the questions. I didn't tell her that the reason why I fought was not only to avenge Baek but also to heal my wounded pride. My defeat by Jin had burned badly; failure wasn't something I took gently. Also, the amount of cash for the winner wouldn't hurt. But I felt that if I told Julia that, she'd think me only a selfish, stupid jerk—which I probably was.

But I wondered why _she_ fought, why there was such a sad look about her all the time. Sure, she was bitter and a little mean with her words, but I don't think she was like that before. Something happened to her. I sensed some of that former sweetness in her, something good from the times before, but she hid it all very well.

"My family...especially my mother...didn't have the greatest of relationships with the Mishima family," she began.

"Hell, who does?" I smirked.

"Yeah...she was actually murdered by them."

An awkward silence ensued, and the spaces between us grew even more. They killed her mom?

Julia smiled grimly. "But vengeance isn't the only reason. I also needed the money to reforest the land. That's why I fight, Hwoarang."

Well there was a start. I knew a little more about her now, but she still wasn't telling me everything. I guess I had to be patient, which is one thing I usually hate doing—until now, apparently, for this random girl. God damn it, why was she so different? Why was I so easily drawn in? Was I that pathetic?

"I'm sorry about your mom," I said sincerely, conjuring up an image of Sundok as I did so. My conclusion: mothers suck. Leaving their kids behind and all...

Julia flashed me a questioning look, but then looked away out the window once more. "Why? You didn't know her. You don't know _me_. But thanks anyway for trying to make me feel better," she muttered harshly.

I guess she wasn't used to sympathy either.

When the bill finally came for Julia's coffee and mine, I paid for most of it. We headed for the road and this time she didn't hesitate to hold me around the waist. It was a little odd though. Her grip on me felt as if she was clinging on for dear life, as if she was afraid of something.

"Jules? You okay?" I asked her when we stopped for gas miles later.

She didn't answer, merely stared down at a silver ring on her finger.


	4. Chopsticks and Trust

It was painful, but I rehashed some of the stuff that happened in "Wanderer" in this chapter for those of you who didn't read that story. For those of you who did, sorry in advance. You'll have to endure some summarization for a bit, but I swear the story moves on after that.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Chopsticks and Trust**

"_We're never so vulnerable than when we trust someone - but paradoxically, if we cannot trust, neither can we find love or joy."_ –Walter Anderson

**Hwoarang**

"Well, where do you suppose we go first? The possibilities are endless when you're traveling nowhere_,_" I ask Julia on the road.

"Hell if I know. Just drive," she replies from behind me.

Her steely demand irks me, but she probably isn't fully awake yet. Everyone has their pissy moods.

As a red light looms ahead I take the opportunity to look at her. Even though she is physically there behind me, arms clasped around my waist and single braid draped over a shoulder, her eyes reveal she is somewhere else. Staring blankly at the plains around us she sighs, eyes closing momentarily from the beaming sunlight. What is she thinking about?

A moment later she snaps out of her dream-like state and our gazes meet; I give her a reassuring smile. Unsurprisingly, I get a glare in response. It's actually starting to get a bit endearing.

"What are you looking at?" she snarls, "I said drive."

The smile falls from my face. Why the fuck is she so uptight? Before she really pisses me off, I better find out why there's such a long pole stuck in this woman's ass.

A car beeps from behind me and I'm forced to accelerate. Gritting my teeth, I know that I can't let her get away with it this time. I've tolerated her for long enough. After I pass the lights I screech to a halt on the side of the road, park my bike and turn around to face her.

"What are you doing?" she demands more than asks, "Why did we stop?"

"_We_? First and foremost, there's no 'we' here; you reinforced that last night, remember? I'm the one driving and paying for the gas. Just so you know I'm in control," I say, deciding to quit with cordiality.

Julia glares at me and avoids eye contact; she has quite a talent for doing that. She's also damn lucky that she's terribly cute and that I find her annoyingly interesting. Otherwise, had she been any other broad, I wouldn't have given her the time of day.

"So, you wanna tell me the real reason why you're being such a bitch?" I ask. There's no use in trying to be nice anymore. She obviously doesn't respond to that kind of thing.

"What?"

"Think about it, smarty: I pick you up from the rain, take you to shelter, buy you coffee, haul your ungrateful little butt around on my bike—"

"Excuse me I have been grateful. I recall thanking you earlier."

"Well a couple words ain't going to do it. I really_ hate _it when people tell me what to do, especially strangers like you who think they're entitled to everything, and especially when I've done nothing to you."

"Well—" she begins, but I interrupt.

"And since you're a good-looking girl, I've tolerated you. I don't have to do all this shit for you, and if you don't shape up, I'm dumping your little ass back where I found you. Understand?" I growl.

Her eyes narrow like a wolf's, but I know she's considering what I've said, and I wait patiently for her answer. Sighing, she looks away again before replying.

"Fine…I'm—I'm sorry. I…I haven't been that kind to you. It's just that…" she trails off.

"What."

"I…I…"

"Spit it out, hon; I don't have time for this."

She flashes me a scathing look, but continues, "I don't take to people well. I don't…_trust _like I used to."

Wow, what a revelation. It's not like I hadn't figured that out already.

"Hell, who does anymore? I don't care if you don't trust me. I don't even trust _you. _I just expect a tiny bit of gratitude in return; makes sense doesn't it? If I do try to hurt you, just use those special knifing skills your tribe taught you or whatever. No one should be treated that way unless you have a good reason. Do you have a good reason to be a bitch?"

"Actually I do…"

"Excuse me?"

"No. I don't."

"Exactly. So will you fucking stop?"

"…"

"_Will you stop?"_

"_Yes!"_

We glare at each other for a moment, breathing heavily, and I notice that her fists are clenched so tightly her knuckles are completely white, as if she's tempted to punch me. Smirking, I turn my back on her. The anger lingers, dances on the tip of my tongue, ready to burst forth if Julia should cross the line again. But she's quiet this time. Shaking my head, I keep my eyes forward and my mouth shut, refusing to make conversation, and we sit there like that on the side of the road for several minutes, fuming and silent.

After awhile, Julia utters, "Hwoarang?"

"What."

"Thank you."

"Whatever you say," I reply irritably.

"I mean it. If it weren't for you, I'd still be stranded. I don't want you to think that this—that this is how I am," she says softly.

"I know this isn't how you are, Julia; why do you think I'm putting up with your cranky shit? Hopefully later I'll get to know the real you, huh?" I reply.

Julia doesn't answer. No surprise. She and I have a long ways to go.

"Let's just be civil, alright? We're gonna be together for awhile." At least, I hope we will be.

"Yeah. Civil."

**Julia**

I sit behind Hwoarang, a stranger, a nobody for all I know…and I feel sorry for some reason. Ever since Michelle was taken from me, I don't care what people think of me anymore. Nothing matters except survival and vengeance. But now, beside this brash, impetuous, spirited man, I suddenly feel a shift in me. Suddenly, I feel as if I should care, as if my treatment of him was something I should worry about. No matter who I'd met on the road, I had never once shown them anything but cold pretense and temporary tolerance. They never struck me as special, only made me more wary; people aren't to be trusted after all, no matter how many smiles they give or how many kind words uttered. They all seem nice at first, but if you let them get too close…let's just say that, in the end, they always want something from you.

Hwoarang is no exception. The Korean's cute and charming, but he's like all the others; he wants a piece of my mind, maybe even a piece of my heart, and I'll be damned if I let him have any of it.

I trusted Jin and look where that took me. If I trust Hwoarang, where would _that _take me?

But how had I let myself apologize, let myself be carried away by his smile and his words? Wasn't I trying to keep him away, like all the others, like Jin?

Ah, Jin Kazama. The mere thought of his name sends chills up my back. He is the reason why I am on this road, the reason why I find myself clinging to this Korean vagabond. He is the reason why I have become this cold-hearted, edgy, broken shell of a woman.

Hwoarang wonders why I am on the road alone, why I desire escape above adventure; he's too curious for his own good. Unfortunately, he isn't the only one who has wanted a part of me; I have intrigued many on this journey, and that just makes me more cautious. To intrigue is to draw attention, and that's the last thing I need at the moment. There's nothing intriguing about tragedy and fear after all.

I sit behind this man, and I remember all that happened.

It didn't begin with me. To fully understand why, we must first look at Michelle's history, for my mother was the lucky one, the very first of my family to experience this legacy of darkness. During the second Iron Fist tournament, Heihachi Mishima's interest turned to my people's lands; he coveted my mother's medallion, which was supposedly the key to some great treasure, which was something so sacred that even the Navajo refused to speak of it. But Heihachi desired the medallion so much he ended up kidnapping my mother in hopes of forcing an answer from her. Having no choice but to rescue her, I joined the third Iron Fist tournament and was lucky enough to find her alive. After that, things quieted down a bit. I graduated from high school, got into college, and life seemed normal.

But of course, when you're dealing with the Mishima's, peace and normalcy never last for very long. Two years later, Heihachi's on the hunt for his own son, Kazuya—the one who killed my mother. Tainted, maddened with the demon blood racing through his veins, Kazuya was desperate to find a cure for the Gene. Believing that the antidote lied within the earth, he tore through the land, decimated Native American nations on his way, destroyed lives and left a trail of blood in his wake. My mother was one of those lives. When he'd trespassed into Navajo land, Michelle had resisted—and paid with her life. Had I been there, I would have been killed as well. Or maybe, together, my mother and I could have defeated Kazuya.

It is one of my greatest regrets, not being there with my mother in her last hours on this earth. But that's how it happened: Heihachi kidnapped Michelle, and, two years later, his son murdered her.

And how does Jin Kazama fit into this puzzle? How do _I_?

For me, time really has no relevance anymore. Past and present are one and the same, and the future is as ambiguous as the desert sky. But if I must put a timeline to this, then I would say that it began two months ago, more or less. I studied abroad in Mexico with my archeology class. We were there studying the ruins of the ancient Mayan and Aztec civilizations, and it was there in that beautiful, cursed place that I met Jin. I had had no idea why he was there but didn't care, for he intrigued me from the start. I was naïve, stupid and desperate for that attraction, and of course everything made perfect sense to me then.

I let myself be led astray. I dived straight into the waiting jaws of the coyote without a second thought. Love _blinds_, yes, but I had no idea that love could_ kill_ too.

But you couldn't really blame the guy: Jin was beautiful and dangerous, haunting and dark and surprisingly lovable, unlike any man I had ever encountered before. After awhile he told me he loved me and I believed it. I believed that I loved him too and worse, that I trusted him. I believed it so ardently that I drove everyone close to me away. My grades plummeted, my sense of reality diminished—and I lost my mother. From the beginning, Michelle had sensed that Jin could only bring trouble for he was connected to the Mishima family; she constantly warned me to be careful. But I didn't listen. I thought I knew Jin. I was twenty, independent, educated and in love, so nothing else mattered. It was _my_ life.

Well, I finally started listening once Kazuya killed Mom, and my cousin, Gabriel, too, when he'd attempted to save Michelle. I started listening when Jin betrayed me and allied himself with Heihachi in his selfish search for an antidote for the Gene. He became no better than Kazuya. I only listened when it was far too late, when I had already lost everything. The only things I had left were my people and my land, but even then I refused to associate with them, fearful that Jin's curse would take them too. So, I did the only thing I knew that could guarantee their safety: I ran.

To flee the reservation had been shameful, one of the greatest betrayals I could commit against my people, but I really had no choice. Worse, I missed my mother's funeral, and that was simply unforgivable.

Then, with no school, no home, no mother, no love, I became a wanderer. Comfort and familiarity shifted to a stage of raw survival. And so, like my people had done for generations and generations before me, I adapted to change. Native Americans have always possessed an uncanny talent for survival regardless of how traumatizing the circumstances. Alone, I thrived, but I became someone different. Not new, just different. I think that, latent in me, there has always been this colder, darker Julia waiting to emerge when the time was right; there is darkness in us all. And here she is now before the earth, and I feel ashamed and useless and beaten, but I still fight for life.

I really don't deserve to be alive. To me, I had already died back in Mexico. Spiritually and emotionally, I was nothing. Alive but not living. Trust me, there's a difference.

After Michelle's death, I fled Mexico, deserted Jin. There was no future for me with him. He never did find that cure that his beloved father had murdered for; in the end, Jin surrendered to the Gene. I run now, not from Jin Kazama, but from the demon that has usurped his spirit. I run now to redeem myself, to find that light that would set my mother's spirit free. I run, but know that I will never run fast enough to escape the memories. What's done is done. I can't change the past. I can only hope, _beg_, for forgiveness, for a merciful future.

* * *

Sighing, the wind caresses my face, and I lean more heavily onto Hwoarang as he drives, the muscles of his back rippling beneath my touch. I won't ever tell him this, but it feels incredibly nice to depend on someone for a change.

"So you really have no idea where you want to go?" he asks.

"I really don't," I reply.

"We've been driving for half an hour."

"Well, you decide then."

"Hmm…"

It is nearing three o'clock and my stomach rumbles. All I'd had that day was a cup of coffee, which had tasted like dirt and water. But Hwoarang, I admit, had been sweet and had tried to get me something, so I'd been grateful.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Yeah, a little," I admit.

"Well, jeez all you had to do was say so! What do'ya like? Asian, American, Italian, what do you want?

"Doesn't really matter, as long as it's filling!" I shout above the roar of the motorcycle.

"What?!" he screams, cocking his ear in my direction.

"_As. Long. As. It's. Filling_!"

"_What!?"_

"_You're an asshole!_" I scream right into his ear, my lips brushing the lobe.

He turns and smiles at me, and my stomach clenches at the expression.

"Next time use some tongue!"

"Fuck you!"

"Ha, ha, ha! You like Thai food?"

"Sure."

"We'll look for Thai then!"

For almost another half-hour Hwoarang drives all over town looking for a Thai restaurant, and after awhile I tell him to just stop at the local Burger King. We'd passed about five already, and my stomach is just about hollow.

But he refuses and insists, "The lady desires Thai, so I shall give her Thai."

He really is charming, unfortunately.

Eventually, we come across a small Thai restaurant, Red Orchid, and go inside. The little restaurant smells delicious and my stomach rumbles loudly. A short, crumpled little woman shows us to our table and plops down some shabby looking menus onto the booth.

When our food arrives, it comes only with chopsticks; the only spoon was for the bowl of rice. I watch as Hwoarang licks his lips, seizes his chopsticks, and starts attacking his plate, food disappearing at warp speed into his mouth. In desolation, I look down, slightly perplexed, at mine. Yeah I'm three quarters Chinese, (Chinese father, Navajo-Chinese mother) but I'd always identified more with my Navajo heritage. My skills with the utensils aren't nonexistent; I'm decent at chopsticks, but they pale in comparison to the Korean's. Slowly, I begin to pick at my food.

"Aren't you hungry?" Hwoarang asks with his mouth full.

Ignoring him, I readjust my fingers on the two wooden utensils, but fail miserably when I attempt to pick up a piece of beef. He stares, confused at first, then bursts out laughing.

"Shut up," I mutter. In desperation, I start reaching for my food with my fingers, when Hwoarang stops me.

"Dear lord, Julia, quit that! Are you telling me you'd die of starvation just 'cause you can't use two wooden sticks to eat?" he laughs.

"Shut up! Just teach me will you?" I say as angrily as I can manage, but fail at suppressing the smile.

Hwoarang's laughter diminishes to a smile as he patiently teaches me how to set my fingers, how to pick up food, and all the while I don't pay quite as much attention as I should have. His strong hands guiding mine are distracting and set my skin on fire. Damn it. Am I that weak? Will I allow all attractive men to warp me like this?

"You got it?" he asks, "Try it now."

I do, and manage to pick up a clump of rice before dropping it.

"Good start, but drop it into your _mouth _this time," he grins.

"Ha, ha," I reply sarcastically, and then pick up the rice ball again. This time I put it in my mouth with ease, and Hwoarang makes a big show of clapping his hands.

"Hey, you did it!" he exclaims, "This rare moment calls for celebration!"

I roll my eyes as he chugs down the rest of his Coke, but he doesn't seem to care. Rather, he just continues to laugh, dishing more rice onto my plate for more practice.

Dinnertime draws near, yet Hwoarang and I are not nearly finished with our lunch. His jokes seem never to cease and send me into fits of laughter. I haven't laughed that hard in months, and it feels strange to allow myself such release. Out of the corner of my eye, sometimes I would catch the Korean staring at me quietly; he too thinks my laughter is odd.

Three hours later we leave Red Orchid and head for the road again; despite our previously shared laughter, everything becomes cold and formal once more. We walk stiffly side by side and don't say a word. Neither of us knows what to say about our first day together.

As we make our way to his bike, I keep stealing furtive glances at him. He's handsome, to put it simply, with a well-defined profile, dark almond eyes and full lips that jut out slightly in a permanent pout, softening his stronger features. His fiery hair keeps getting into his eyes and Hwoarang constantly sweeps them out of the way with his fingers, or with a slight toss of his head. Everything about him is so intriguing, so tempting, so…

My face suddenly feels hot and I look in the opposite direction. Too fast, Julia, too fast. You've just met him remember? And no trust, no goddamn trust.

"Well, gotta find a place to sleep again," Hwoarang states softly, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah," I reply.

When we get to his motorcycle, Hwoarang says, "Lunch was fun, Jules. See, I knew I'd get to know you a little better. I knew you weren't as mean as you pretend to be."

"Pretend?"

"Yes, pretend. You don't think I honestly buy that cold shoulder bitch charade, do ya? I've been with a lot of girls before, so I would know."

"Uh…ok…" Great, a player. I should have known.

He shrugs, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, without regret, I admit I've been with a lot of girls. I'm just too beautiful, ya know? The ladies gotta have it. I mean, just look at this sexy-ass red hair, these muscular legs and these abs. Irre_sis_tible, baby, simply _irresistible_."

Hell yes. But, snorting, I shake my head, "Well, not to me. You're just an arrogant, conceited prick."

At this Hwoarang laughs. "I already told you you're a bad liar. _Nobody _can resist this shit," he teases, running a leather-gloved hand through his crimson locks as he licks his lips.

"I'm not lying." But I am, I really, really am. I am so attracted to him it's making me sick.

"Sure, sure. But I'll tell you one thing…"

His tone of voice changes suddenly, and he stares up into the night sky. When he speaks, he is sincere.

"…I'm glad you decided to stay with me instead of run away."

I turn to look at him, and he's smiling at me, dark wolf eyes gazing at me fearlessly; he's so damn bold and open with his emotions, while I fight to keep mine under control. I don't know what to make of it. He smiles, and I feel something collapse inside of me. It's a different smile this time, one that holds promises of something more, something secret and wild yet tender and gentle at the same time; I look away. Desire boils in the pit of my stomach, but my mind re-forges that fortress around my heart, and the desire wilts.

Suppress, suppress, always suppress. Suppression equals survival. Right?

Hwoarang then straddles his bike and motions for me to do the same. With his words echoing in my mind, I wonder at the odd feelings in my heart.


	5. Walking in Beauty

Hey everybody. I know, I know...an update! I've been working for awhile on this chapter. I kept reading it over and over and over, editing, editing, editing, and quite frankly, nothing of mine will ever be perfect, so I've just decided to leave it as it is. I hope you guys like it. It's one of the longer chapters, about ten pages or so, but that's what you deserve for being so patient. So thank you. :) As always, suggestions are welcome, if you have any. Enjoy. Oh! And a special shout out to_** Razer Athane**_. Thank you especially for being patient and for being a fan. Your input/reviews are always appreciated. --_Sage_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Walking in Beauty **

_In beauty, may I walk._

_All day long, may I walk._

_Through the returning seasons, may I walk._

_Beautifully I will possess again._

_Beautifully birds...Beautifully joyful birds..._

_With beauty, may I walk.__With beauty before me, may I walk._

_With beauty behind me, may I walk.__With beauty above me, may I walk._

_With beauty all around me, may I walk._

- Excerpt from the Navajo Night Way Ceremony

**Julia**

Several miles later we find a motel, one in slightly better condition this time and, once again, Hwoarang and I are sharing a room. With his back turned, he flips idly through a tattered magazine, feigning interest in the worn pages. Taking one last look at him to make sure he isn't sneaking glances, I begin to change into my "pajamas"—cargo shorts and a tank top. When one travels light, everything has multiple uses.

"Don't even think about looking," I warn as I remove my shirt and bra as swiftly as possible.

"Oh I'm thinkin' it," he smirks, turning a page in the magazine, "just not doin' it."

"Just keep your back turned."

Shoving my shirt into my backpack, I then tie my hair back into a ponytail and slip on my shorts. Goosebumps crawl across the skin of my arms and thighs as the air conditioned room chills my bare flesh; I decide to keep my socks on as well.

"Done," I say after a moment, and Hwoarang turns.

"Sorry couldn't help it. I looked," he grins mischievously.

"Oh please. I was watching you the whole time."

"Even when you had your shirt over your head?"

"Alright prove it: what color bra?" I demand, knowing full well that he hadn't looked.

"Pink lace, strapless."

"Wrong."

"Velvet leopard print with firm push up, unlined for maximum comfort and full coverage?"

"Someone's been looking through the Victoria's Secret catalogue way too much."

"Naw, I'm just…well-rounded," he replies with a wink.

"You're sick, you know that?"

"Oh I know: black and see-through with little rhinestones."

"Bingo," I reply sarcastically, refusing to admit that I find his banter somewhat adorable.

"Sexy," he utters softly, eyes narrowing as he stares at me, and I can't tell if he's joking or not, "I never would have thought you were that type."

"Then what 'type' do you think I am?" I sneer.

"Hopefully I'll find out later," he teases, eyes roving up and down my body, and I grab the magazine from his hand and smack him across the shoulder.

"Perv."

"Correction: man."

"Not every man is like you."

Snorting, he retorts, "Yes they are. But unlike them, I'm just not afraid to say this kind of stuff out loud."

"Well if every man is like you, I'll seriously consider becoming a lesbian."

"Now _that_ would be sexy."

"You really are sick."

As I pull back the covers on the bed, I feel his eyes on me again. His gaze is as powerful as actual physical touch and I look up, hating how the heat rises to my skin.

"What."

He pauses, solemn. "How do I earn your trust?"

"I see you're not the subtle type," I mutter irritably.

"Tell me how, Julia. I've been trying to figure it out, and maybe the best way is just to ask you straight up. I want you to feel comfortable around me."

"I do feel comfortable. I just took off my clothes in front of you."

"With my back turned."

"So what do you want to see me naked? Will that make up for it?" I smirk.

Hwoarang begins to smile, but quickly hides it by shaking his head. "No, I mean—that's not the point. There's tension between us, and I don't like it. I really want for us to be able to trust each other. Simple as that."

"It's not as simple as that." Spirits curse him for being so damn persistent.

"Only because you like to make it complicated, Miss Wise-ass-who-thinks-she's-so-mysterious."

"Look, you don't know shit about me."

"Enlighten me then."

"Why should I? I'm nothing to you, and you're nothing to me."

"You're not 'nothing' to me. You're—"

Hwoarang breaks off mid-sentence, his cheeks enflamed as he looks away. It's the first time he isn't staring at me with that notorious, confident gaze of his, and I am suddenly curious to know what this man thinks of me. And was that longing I heard in his voice?

"I'm what?" I ask, half mocking half genuinely curious.

"Julia, why don't you just tell me what really happened to you," he says, completely disregarding my question, his words like a punch in the face. His eyes have regained their former fire, and he glares at me from across the room as if he'd never looked away in the first place.

"Look," I growl, "Maybe in your world, a bowl of rice and a few bike rides earns someone's trust, but not in mine. So why don't you back the hell off. How many times do we have to go through this?"

Running a hand through his scarlet locks, he continues to stare at me, jaw clenching as he struggles to curb his temper.

"A million more if that's what it takes," he murmurs.

"You'll be wasting your time then," I retort.

"You're afraid you'll lose yourself. Is that it, Julia?"

"What's that supposed to mean, huh?"

"Cut the crap," he utters softly, "you know exactly what I mean."

Unfortunately, I do, and I am taken aback by Hwoarang's insight. Perhaps the man's not so much the imbecile I believe he is. Yes…I am afraid to lose myself, because I am all that I have left. Without me, Michelle dies in vain, un-avenged, her spirit chained to the mortal world. Without me, Jin wins. Without me, I am powerless. Heartless. Spiritless. If not already so. I gave so much of myself to Jin that I didn't know how much had been lost until too late. And now I am attempting to collect myself again, and this nosy bastard is trying to tamper with that. I can have no distractions!

Without me, I fail my people. The Diné have a saying: "walking in beauty." It means that one must try and continue to live and prosper, to love and laugh despite all the cruel and dark things that occur. Life, to my people, is the greatest gift, so you must make the best of every "step" in your walk--love every moment you are given. The old belief is that we have an "obligation" to live a full life so that our family, and our future families to come, will have a good life too. Everything we do affects our family and everyone else; so, you better work hard and live life to the best of your ability.

Indeed, it's easier said than done, especially after what happened to me. This redheaded buffoon would know nothing about such a thing. All he cares about is himself after all. In order to walk in beauty, I must not let Hwoarang into my mind, let alone my heart. I live and walk only for Michelle—and only to heal myself.

Seething, I turn on him. "You've never been hurt, have you? You've never lost someone."

"Yes I have," he replies quietly with a humorless smile, "the world doesn't revolve around you, you know. I know pain very well."

A bit shocked, I find myself hesitating. Hwoarang, this loudmouthed, carefree wanderer has known suffering? But he seems so happy, so ignorant. Maybe his definition of pain differs from mine. _Or maybe, you cold-hearted fool, you've unintentionally fallen in love with your own misery_, a part of my mind suddenly hisses, _and you have become selfish and blind to compassion. He offers friendship. How else do you plan to heal?! To keep it all hidden away will only destroy you. _

_Shut up! _Clenching my jaw, I silence that voice in my mind. Old Julia would have fallen for Hwoarang. Old Julia would have sought for that "compassion", for someone to lean on, and would have told him everything. But old Julia Chang now lay dormant. I'm not waking her up any time soon—if she's even still there at all.

_To keep it all hidden away will only destroy you…_

"Then why don't _you_ 'enlighten' _me_. Tell me, and I'll tell you. That's how we Natives do it," I demand, regaining my voice.

"What?"

"Give me something, and I'll give you something. So far you've given me nothing, so why should I tell you anything?"

Hwoarang boasts that he's been with loads of girls, but he hasn't the slightest idea how to deal with a woman. Perhaps he's an expert in the bedroom, but when it comes to a woman's heart, Hwoarang is more than inexperienced.

Then again, am _I _any better when it comes to a man's heart?

"Well Hwoarang, why don't you tell me what really happened to_ you_?"

The Korean man becomes quiet momentarily, almond eyes narrowing as his gaze hardens. Looking away finally, his fists clench, and I can see the muscles in his arms tighten. I know instantly that I've uncovered the first layer of a wound, of a secret, but instead of feeling triumphant, it merely sparks my interest. We have more in common than we'd both realized.

"Forget I said anything," Hwoarang mutters under his breath before climbing into bed.

**Hwoarang**

The woman is much more talented at hiding than I thought. Julia is a mystery waiting to be solved—or, perhaps, a mystery that doesn't want to be solved, but solely discovered. Now she knows that I've got something to hide. Well hell, two can play that game right? She's crafty, and it makes me wonder how far she'd go to keep her secrets unknown.

She's driving me crazy—I love it. I hate it. I hate and love how she ensnares with one word, with one smoldering look. I've never been so curious in my life and I feel like banging my head against the wall to try and drive her out—but now I know that I'm hooked. What would Rafe say if he saw me now? "Dios mío, could Hwoarang be in _love_? I told you so, in your face! In your pathetic, cynical little face!" Well, maybe not exactly like that, but some version of it. But never mind Rafe. Besides, I'm not in love. I'm just…highly intrigued.

I should have left the damn broad in the rain. She makes me think too much. Feel too much. Wonder too much. Lying in bed, staring up into that cold darkness, I think about what Julia said. The "Native" way of doing things. Reciprocity. If you take something, always give something back in return. But if I do decide to tell her, then I'll have to forfeit some of my secrets, some of my privacy…some of _myself._ I've never been one for sacrifice.

Still…I've a feeling that her story will be worth it.

* * *

It is morning yet the sky is dark as night. Through the curtains I can make out the hazy silhouette of a fading crescent moon, black clouds moving in to smother the light. An owl calls softly and dry leaves scrape and claw against the windowpanes, the glass caked with dust and neglect. This place is beautiful in its silence, in its forgetfulness. Though I miss the raucous and bustle of Seoul, I admit that this little spot in wild Montana is peaceful. Sighing, I close my eyes to get more sleep until I notice Julia's bed is empty. Sitting up, I wonder if she's in the bathroom; but after scanning my surroundings, I realize the motel room is dark. Her backpack's gone too, as are her shoes…

Surprisingly, a wave of disappointment washes over me, and I feel a slight ache take hold in my chest. Feeling more than uncomfortable with this foreign sensation, I close my eyes to try and ignore the ache, but the more I try the more I notice her absence. I should have seen this moment coming. Cold as she is, the woman has grown on me.

But right then the motel-room door begins to creak open. All senses now on alert, I shove the blankets off of me and slide off the mattress soundlessly, poised on the balls of my feet. Fists clenched and muscles tightening, I take my fighting stance, ready to leap on whoever it is behind that door. Holding my breath, I feel the familiar electric thrill run through my body, and a hint of a smile tugs at my mouth. This little burglar is in for some surprise.

Outside, the wind quiets. The door inches open further, rusted hinges groaning, and I can make out the silhouette of a person, black shadows moving in to smother their features…I can hear my pulse drumming in my ears, feel the tight squeeze of stomach muscles…come on now...just a little bit more...

Inhaling sharply, I tense, preparing to leap—and just then Julia emerges from behind the door. Taken aback, I force my body to relax. The adrenaline still coursing in my veins, I stagger slightly, and curse under my breath from relief, anger, and, to my disgust, _unbelievable joy_. I am so happy to see Julia I could have hugged her. Instead I remain where I am and pretend to rub the cobwebs from my eyes. Damn her.

"Oh, I thought you were still asleep. I didn't want to disturb you," she whispers, the door fully open now as she steps inside.

Failing to disguise the concern and annoyance in my voice, I grumble, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Good morning to you too."

"I said where've you been?"

"I went for a run."

"You mean you tried to run away?" I retort, gesturing to her backpack.

Maybe I'm not the brightest of the bunch, but I can smell abandonment like a wolf can smell wounded prey. After all, I've great experience with solitude.

She is silent, but her dark eyes meet mine, and I cannot read the expression in them.

"I obviously changed my mind," she murmurs, sliding the backpack off her shoulders.

My heart clenches at the statement, but I disguise my emotions by returning her stoic stare with as much ice as I can muster. Since Sundok left, people have always found it easy to desert me, Hwoarang the temperamental lowlife with no parents. Whether it was my father, girlfriends, or gang members, people never lasted for very long. Well ok, Baek had always been there, but now that he's in the hospital, I find myself alone once again. At a young age, I had come to the conclusion that people were only temporary, and most of all that they really didn't give a fuck. But Julia had changed her mind when she'd had the perfect opportunity to leave me. And that struck me deep--deeper than I liked.

Well shit, Hwoarang, don't get your hopes up. You know what happens every time you get your hopes up.

"Why?" I smirk, "Did'ya miss me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she mutters icily, and this time I do smile. She's back all right, every intelligent, bittersweet, angry, sarcastic, enigmatic, bitchy, lovely bit. I couldn't have been more content.

"Why don't you just admit it, Jules."

"It's beautiful out you know," she replies, completely ignoring my comment.

"Beautiful? You can't even see anything," I retort, peering out the window at the darkness.

"The weather is perfect, the sun is about to rise—never mind. You're blind to nature's beauty."

"I am anything but blind to nature's beauty," I say, and stare at her long and hard until Julia rolls her eyes and shuts the door.

"Will you ever see past the exterior?" she asks, sighing.

"Yes, if you'd let me."

She shuts up quick. Grabbing a change of clothes Julia heads for the shower. Fifteen minutes later she emerges looking tempting in a snug black tank top and ripped faded blue jeans. Low rise. Even better. Her hair hangs damp and tousled about her shoulders, and I can smell the lingering aroma of the soap in her skin. Unable to help myself, my eyes travel the sleek curves of her waist, the muscled hills of her buttocks and thighs, up to the tan, smooth planes of her arms, then to the full breasts that her black shirt fails to disguise. When she bends down to slip on her socks, I see a hint of cleavage, and that subtle show of skin teases my senses and fills my imagination with anything but tame thoughts. Finally, my eyes come to rest on her face, on the long lashes and full lips, brow furrowed as she shoves her clothing into her bag. I bite my lip hard; if only my eyes were my hands! Swallowing, I suppress the desire welling up in my belly. Unless I want a major ass kicking, I better keep my hands to myself. For now, at least.

Pulling out a small brush, Julia starts to run it through her hair. When she finishes with that she takes out lotion and smoothes it onto her arms and face. She is incredibly appealing in her outward appearance of simplicity, alluring in her aloofness, and definitely sexier than those Korean street mongrels who used to stalk me night and day. Exhaling, I force my gaze to the ceiling and press my lips together. Keep your pants on, moron.

"How about we stay here for a couple days? I'm tired of looking for motels," I suggest.

"No, we have to keep moving," she says.

"Why? Do you have a pressing board meeting to attend?" I laugh.

"Look, we just...shouldn't linger."

This time I'm worried. "What, are you running from something?"

"No," she replies way too quickly, "I just like to be on the move."

Liar, liar. But, I let it drop, and insist, "Nope. We're staying here for a bit longer. Take it or leave it."

I can see the wheels turning in her head as she stares at me, eyes dark.

Finally, she utters, "And if I say yes, how do you suppose we'll spend our time? Arguing some more?"

"If you want. I love to argue, especially with a hothead like you. But I'd rather dance."

She raises an eyebrow, and I laugh softly. Oh man, this girl needs to get out more. "There's this club a few miles west of here. You wanna go?" I ask.

Earlier, I'd asked the owner of the motel about the kinds of entertainment this side of Montana offered, and the nightclub, The Black Rose, was one of his suggestions for "young people" like me.

"Clubbing?" she asks, "As in, strobe lights and grinding?"

"No as in banjos and hoedowns."

The Native American woman flashes me one of those rare smiles of hers, but just as quickly it vanishes. To my disappointment, she puts her lotion away then replies, "I don't think so."

"And why not? You can't dance?"

"I never said that."

"Well come on then, show me some moves," I insist, crossing my arms.

"Like hell I will. I haven't danced in years!"

"So what. It's more about the music, baby," I grin, shaking my hips a bit, "it's all in the rhythm. Besides, it'll be dark, and no one will care."

"The only time I've ever danced seriously is at powwows."

"Pow-what?" I ask, baffled.

The woman laughs this time. "Forget it."

"Well, however you dance, it won't matter. Here, let me demonstrate some."

Ignoring her protests, I move towards the center of the room and begin to dance to a silent tune in my head, humming all the while. Shaking my ass like there is no tomorrow, I shuffle across the room, red hair flying and hips gyrating, fingers snapping and heart racing. Smiling, I beckon Julia to join me, and she declines, but I notice that she's trying—and failing—to hold in her laughter.

"Mhm, mhm, mhm," I grunt, "this body knows no limits! Ooooooh yeah!"

"Shut _up_, Hwoarang, and for the spirits' sake stop dancing!"

"Uh, uh, uh—"

"All right, all right, let's go. Just stop that!"

Smiling like an idiot, I cease dancing and remove my shirt.

"Excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable," I say in a mock seductive tone, and pull on a dark green tank top that fit snugly over my torso. Smiling, I notice Julia staring at me, and flex my muscles, loving the blush that rises to her cheeks.

"Clubs have a dress code?" she asks, and I can't tell if she's serious or not. This woman _really _needs a social life.

"Well you wanna wear something sexy," I grin, running a hand through my hair. She's trying hard not to stare at my arms this time.

Smirking, Julia disappears into the bathroom once more, and then reappears moments later donning a short little jean skirt. On her throat she wears a thin hoop of silver; in her ears hang golden-white feathers held in place by turquoise beads. Her black tank top has risen slightly, exposing a thick line of midriff. This time I'm the one staring.

"Something like this?" she murmurs, an eyebrow raised.

"Uh…y-yeah," I manage to utter through the lump in my throat, "something like that."

* * *

The Black Rose is packed, as to be expected, since it's a Friday night. One can hear the bass from miles away, every note of the song injecting its rhythm into your veins, pulsing, intoxicating; music is my drug of choice. The place stinks of sweat, desperation, alcohol, cheap perfume, and artificial love--my kind of place. Shoving our way through the crowd of muscle-baring men and women clothed in outfits ranging from tube tops and jeans to sleazy lingerie, Julia and I eventually make it to the bar. After situating ourselves, I order Julia a margarita and a beer for me.

"Cancel that order. I'll have water," she says to the bartender, and I wrinkle my nose.

"Julia, we are at a nightclub. You drink alcohol!"

"I'm twenty, Hwoarang."

"And?"

"Oh that's right, I forgot that you're above the law," she smirks, "Besides even if I were of age, why would I want to drink something that makes me feel like shit and act like a fool?"

"Pure and simple, sweetheart: booze tastes good, really good. You only feel like shit and act like a fool if you drink too much. Didn't you learn that in high school?" I laugh.

"How old are you again?" she asks, gazing at me with her head cocked.

"Fifteen," I tease, and take my beer from the bartender.

Julia smiles, "I already knew that. I mean on the outside."

Scowling at her, I take a gulp of my beer. "Twenty-one."

Pretending to survey my surroundings, I give Julia time to get used to the new environment. Knowing her (or at least, what I know of her right now), she'd probably adapt to any setting I shove her into; she's freakishly independent after all. Still, I can't force her onto the dance floor right away.

The lights turn down low abruptly, magenta and gold strobe lights flashing, casting jagged shadows onto Julia's face. Sipping my beer, I view her like those strobe lights, in quick, staccato glances, and devour her image slowly. I'm in deep and I know it, but I don't care and continue to watch her. She really is beautiful. Some fast-paced, jittery techno song comes on and before I can stop it I feel my foot begin to tap. I typically dislike this genre of music; rock over rap, metal over techno. But, one can't really dance well to Metallica and Avenged Sevenfold, now can they? I want hips and thighs and sweat, skin on skin and all emotion, so throw in some R&B and Korean pop; music to my body, not my ears.

Without a word, I down the rest of my drink, the affects of the alcohol already working wonders on my senses, the smooth heat threading lazy fingers over my nerves. Rising, I beckon for Julia to follow me. Ignoring her sigh of complaint, I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor. Once there, I reluctantly allow her space, dancing with more than enough room between our bodies. However, this seems to make the situation even more awkward; while I'm getting carried away with the music, the woman merely stands there with a bewildered look on her face.

"Come on!" I shout to her and dance even harder in an attempt to make her move, "Dance!"

Shaking her head, she begins to leave, but I seize her arm. "Come on, Julia! I'll close my eyes if that makes you feel better."

"Let me go," she demands, wriggling in my grasp, "I'm not dancing just 'cause you want me to!"

This time I do release her. "Wh-what? Who said this was about me?"

Ceasing dancing, I glare at her, the strobe lights blinding and annoying now. The lights accentuate the distress on her face, and I suddenly realize that the girl's insecure. A bead of sweat forms on her forehead and I reach to smooth it away with a finger; shockingly, she does not recoil from my touch.

From behind me, a woman stumbles into me, and I find myself crashing clumsily into Julia. Staggering, the two of us crash into a wall, our bodies pressed tightly together.

"Oops," I smile, making no move to get off her, "sorry about that."

She doesn't reply, merely remains motionless against the wall. Feeling bold, I press even closer to her until I can smell the rosemary shampoo in her hair.

"It's not about me," I whisper into her ear, and feel her tremble against my body, "and it's not for me. Just dance, Jules. Let go. Forget."

Being that close to her is so intoxicating I might have fainted had we not been supported by the wall, and I suppress the urge to brush my lips against her neck.

"Forget?" she murmurs. I close my eyes, loving the slight blow of her breath on my hair.

"Yes. Forget."

"I'm not..." she begins, starting to squirm against me now, "I'm not very good at forgetting, Hwoarang."

And with those words, I see a glimpse of that former Julia, of that former sweetness, and my heart clenches. Damn whoever or whatever had hurt her! But it gives me hope. Buried deep within her, veiled behind countless layers of facades, somewhere in that secret vastness that is her mind and heart, lays the truth. No amount of pretending and forgetting can erase that truth.

"_I know you try to forget it all, bury it away into that stone heart of yours, but it's useless; the hole will never be deep enough, Hwoarang."_

Maybe Rafe is right. Maybe, like me, Julia should remember instead…the trouble is, like me, she refuses.

I realize then just how fragile she really is. Unable to help myself, I lean forward and press my mouth very, very lightly onto the sensitive spot behind her earlobe. Again, she doesn't pull away, and I allow myself to linger there for a moment longer, inhaling her scent, feeling her warmth pulse beneath my lips. Julia shudders, but remains still; I wonder what she's thinking. It takes all of my strength not to take her into my arms and hold her close; instead, I pull away and look into her face, the strobe lights returning to distort the emotions there.

"I'm not either," I say, and take her to the center of the floor again, amidst all those bodies and sweat and music.

We begin with me dancing behind her, the traditional "bump and grind" position of hip hop themed clubs such as this one. Julia doesn't seem to mind though; I actually think she prefers it that way. Then she won't have to see my face. Then, she can truly let herself get carried away without having to think too hard about her partner, which is fine with me. Just as long as she's content. Just as long as she's content…

Taking a chance, I press myself harder against her body, my hands snaking forward to grip her hips; Julia doesn't seem to notice. Running a hand through her long hair, she merely continues to dance, hips gyrating in a rhythm that seems sexual from a distance—but not quite. She's letting go, or, at least, trying to, and by the way she's moving beneath my hands, her dance is anything but sexual. It is more like a rebellion, liberation, a declaration, which only makes me more and more attracted to her. A thin layer of sweat covers our skin, the muscles of our legs straining and screaming for a minute of mercy, but both Julia and I have no plans of leaving that Technicolor darkness, of abandoning that sweet, rare moment of trust.

A slower song comes on, yet Julia insists on dancing fast. Faster and faster her movements become, and my hands tighten on her hips, gently forcing her rhythm to slow and match my own. _Enjoy the dance_, I tell her silently, _enjoy it while it lasts. Every dance, every song, every person, has a different rhythm. Patience, patience_. Completely disregarding caution, I run my hands up and down her sides, my skin afire with longing as my fingers finally explore the sleek curves of her waist and hips. Over her taught belly they go, up her bare arms too, and all the while Julia makes no move to stop me.

As her body surrenders beneath my hands, Julia turns to face me for the first time that night. There are tears on her cheeks, yet her face is as stony as when I'd first met her on that dark, rainy road. I don't dare wipe them away, but merely smile down into her face, wondering what has caused her such emotion. If she chooses, she will share with me. For now, I can offer her only the comfort of dance and music.

And suddenly without warning, the Native woman slips her arms around my neck and buries her face into my chest. Instinctively, my arms pull her close against me, one hand at her waist, the other tangled in the dark lengths of her hair. And we stand there like that, motionless, in the middle of the dance floor, not knowing what this moment meant. Only…only that, for now, it feels right.

In that moment, with her in my arms and with a terrible, delicious ache in my chest, I know. Despite all of my past resentment, regardless of all that cynicism and resistance to that single strange, debilitating, magnificent emotion, I know that she has my heart. I don't know how she did it; all I know is that I'm lost. I'm prepared to give.

And that scares me.


	6. Remembrance

**Chapter 6: Remembrance**

_**Come with me into the trees**  
We'll lay on the grass and let the hours pass**  
Take my hand, come back to the land**  
Let's get away just for one day  
Let me see you stripped down to the bone**  
Let me see you**** stripped down to the bone**  
Metropolis has nothing on this  
You're breathing in fumes I taste when we kiss  
Take my hand, come back to the land**  
Where everything's ours  
For a few hours**_

"_Stripped_" - Depeche Mode

* * *

**Julia**

We leave the club in silence. We don't even look at each other, our hands at our sides. Just like the Thai restaurant-a moment of trust, a second of forgetfulness, and then, always, the thick silence that follows. We've grown used to the pattern.

We both live in patterns, even though patterns are what we've been running from.

Despite my reservations, the man is still terribly intriguing. I'm sure Hwoarang is used to women being infatuated with him. But it's not his body I want, tempting and flawless as it is. I know this fascination is dangerous. I've known it from the first moment I saw him; I see that wolf in his eyes.

Like lone wolves singing the same hollow songs, on intertwining paths we meet. Every night the moon. Every day the world at your feet, and yet nothing too. No pack, no mate, no territory. Sometimes having no boundaries can be fatal. Just the sky and the earth and the survival that blinds all thoughts and narrows the vision to a single purpose. You can't stand it, yet you don't want to leave it. You must push onward, even if it means another moment of darkness. And so you sing, and so you wander, and so you wonder. Wonder who else shares your song, your road. Wander looking for something, not knowing exactly for what, but wondering if you can find it and hold it and save it before you become lost again. Wondering, time and again, if it is actually you who needs to be saved.

I seem to attract dysfunctional people. Or maybe_ I'm_ the one attracted to the fuck ups. Why can't I just be normal, and be with normal people with normal, mundane lives?

Because I have this ridiculous belief, this _hope_, that I can save people. That I can change them for the better.

But can I save and change _myself_? I've stopped trying to answer that question. It's become redundant.

Besides, sometimes people cannot, _will _not, change no matter how long or how hard you hold on, no matter how much you love and coax and nurture. Some aren't meant to be saved. Some must be allowed to fall, to fail and destroy themselves, and there's not a thing you can do, and you have to accept it. So I'm not saving anyone anymore. I just like hearing people's stories, even though I pretend not to give a damn.

Ya'atsos, one of the few medicine women of my people, told me once that one of the reasons why Navajo exist is to "learn from, rather than about" all the many peoples we meet along our path. And I have met many, many people, and have learned many things. I will continue to learn-like I will tonight.

"You see those forests, over there at the foot of those mountains?" I say once we reach his bike.

The place I speak of is the same spot I visited on my first day in Montana, a forest as thick and dark and beautiful as my mother's hair, the only place that had made me feel at home since the day I left for Mexico.

Turning to where I point, he raises an eyebrow. "You wanna go_ there_? Isn't it gettin' kinda dark?"

"Just take me there. Please," I request gently, and I think he is taken aback by the softness in my voice. For once I'm not making demands.

He had taken me to the nightclub, The Black Rose, to let go, to forget. I will take him to the night, black forest, to let go-to remember.

Just for tonight, I will stop living this pattern.

Shrugging, he complies, and I wrap my arms about his waist as his bike growls to life. The moon shines bright as the sun tonight, her belly full, her skin as cold and luminescent as Navajo silver. Opulent. Opalescent. Obscure.

We ride deep into the woods, the trees beckoning with gnarled fingers and wrinkled skin, branches groaning with wisdom and the weight of restless birds, a library of secrets, cast deep into bark and dirt and stone. The only sound is the obnoxious roar of Hwoarang's bike and the wraith-like whistle of wind in my ears. It seems so foreign here, in this place of untouched perfection. So _sacred_. Beneath my arms I feel Hwoarang's stomach muscles tighten; he senses it too.

Darkness swallows us, embraces and clutches tight. Closing my eyes, I inhale the smell of the road.

After another minute or so, Hwoarang slows to a stop and parks his bike against a tree. Up ahead is a wide clearing, a haven of grass and blossom encircled by the shadowy trees, ancient sentinels to this naked ground. And above it an iridescent tapestry of moon and stars giving the clearing a ghostly glow.

"Does this spot look good to you?" he asks, and I detect a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Having wandered urban streets for so long, he is not accustomed to nature in her purest form.

"It's perfect," I murmur, and make my way into the clearing without waiting for him.

Kicking off my shoes, my feet sore from dancing, I twirl in a few clumsy circles, eyes heavenward, not caring if I humiliate myself in the process. I'm too happy to care; I need this. I need to feel the earth again. Digging my toes into the cool grass, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer in Navajo, my mother's language causing painful waves of nostalgia to wash over me.

"Here I am free. Here I am safe. Here I am unafraid."

Behind me I feel Hwoarang watching my every move. For once I don't care.

"It's beautiful, isn't it," I murmur, staring at him standing there a few feet away. Wind ruffles scarlet hair, the muscles in his arms tightening slightly as the trees exhale a chilled breath over the clearing.

"Yes. It is," he replies, his gaze never leaving mine.

I can tell he doesn't know quite what to do in this situation, which is all the more amusing. Now he knows how I felt like back in the club.

"This is what we become when we die," I say, opening my arms, "what we return to."

"And what about when we live?"

"That is our mystery to solve."

He smirks, the trademark expression I'd come to know too well, and runs long fingers through his hair. Spirits, he's lovely to look at.

"Well isn't that always how it is," he grumbles.

"How is it to you then?" I ask.

The smirk remains on his face, but he doesn't reply.

"Lay down with me," I say. Hwoarang raises an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"You know that's not what I mean," I grumble as I take his hand. "Lay down beside me. Look at the sky with me."

"Uh, I ain't exactly the stargazing type-"

"I ain't the biker type either."

"Well-"

"Just do it!"

"Okay, okay, my_ God_."

Once he's down beside me, I release his hand, and my skin instantly longs for the warmth of him. We are silent again and listen to the symphony of tree and star and night.

After awhile he turns to look at me, almond eyes dark, arms folded behind his head.

"What's goin' on in your head, Julia?"

I sigh, "A lot of things. As usual."

I can almost feel his smile in the darkness. "Does that mind of yours ever stop?"

"Unfortunately not."

"No it's a good thing. Just don't over think, ya know?"

Don't forget to feel, is what he means.

"Well," I begin, "I was thinking about what you said back in the club. About forgetting."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The truth is, you forget the things you want to remember, and you remember the things you want to forget."

**Hwoarang**

She's right.

I want to remember Jahalang. Yet with each day that passes, my father becomes just another memory, a blurry image in the back of my mind, while Sundok remains fresh and all too painful, as if her betrayal had occurred but yesterday.

I stare at Julia a long time, at her mirthless smile and brooding eyes, filled with those stars and those secrets.

If I want something, give something in return. Relinquish. Reciprocate.

Remember.

"I was ten when my mother left my father and me," I begin, closing my eyes.

I can feel the Native woman's gaze finally fall on me, but I keep my eyes shut. If I see her watching me, I might just chicken out. Relax Hwoarang, relax..._god_ you fucking _pussy_. You can handle lowlife, gun-wielding street thugs, but can't open your heart to one woman? But not just any woman, not just any story. It's _my_ story. Still. _You're weak, weak, weak..._

Swallow the bile rising in my throat. Continue. This better be worth it.

_"Every man has a story, Hwoarang. If he never tells it, or worse, if he never remembers it, then he never existed. A man is given only one story. Choose your words carefully."_

Baek's words ring through my mind. It will be worth it.

And I let it all go-well, almost. A man can only do so much. But I try and tell Julia everything, as much as I can remember, from the moment I met Baek, to the moment I found her on that thunderstruck road. The woman is silent all the while, and I'm a bit astonished that she's actually willing to listen to my bullshit story of a life.

A part of me wants at least one person to know who I am-or was. But another part wants to tear it to shreds.

"Truth is, no one wants to be like you and me," I conclude, "rootless wanderers with no true destination, or with some idealistic, intangible destination that you'll likely never find anyway. Most times you're just taking it in as you go. Hoping to forget everything, and at the same time trying to remember, 'cause that's your _life_. It's a fucked up one, but it's still yours."

_Hoping to forget everything, yet hoping you're not forgotten in the process..._

But hasn't the world forgotten you, Hwoarang? Who is now left to remember you? Not the fighter, not the loser, the gang leader, nor the angry little orphan, but _you_?

I know a lot of people think I'm some arrogant, brutish, brainless street rat. But that's just one of my faces, the one I've chosen to present to the world. We all have masks for Life's puppet show, and that one's mine. It's how I've avoided the puppeteers, how I've mastered my own show.

Trouble is sometimes I don't know how to take off that mask. Sometimes I don't want to. It's safer.

No one really knows why I act the way I do. Of course, Baek knows. He can read me like a book and then some, and it creeps me out. But he's the only one I trust to know me for me. Rafe's come pretty damn close, but I won't let him know everything. All the girlfriends and meaningless one night stands have tried to know, but they were never worth it. But for some reason I want _her_ to know.

"When I was younger, I used to think that there's a reason for why all of this happened to me," I murmur, clenching my fist, "that this is my-I hate this word-'fate.'"

_'Cause sometimes you feel so helpless and fucking angry that you start thinking that this is how it's supposed to be. You can't do shit to stop anything, so then you start to accept your misery. In other words, you start to give up._

I risk a glance; her eyes are open, and she's staring into the sky again. But I know she listens.

"But I've learned that's a copout. That's how you get trapped. So I no longer believe in 'fate' or 'destiny.' That bullshit was made up for the weak, for people who have already given up the fight. But for me, I'm always fighting, and will forever do so. For me, there's only choice. _I'm_ in control; _I _make my own destiny. _I_ am my own fate."

"How individualistic."

"So?"

Is she mocking me?

"So you chose to be here," Julia says after a moment, her voice crisp, solemn.

"Yes. I did."

"But of all the roads, why this one? Of all people, why me? Ever thought about that?"

She's always challenging me, whether subtly with a question, or with a full blown fistfight.

"Are you saying that there's a 'reason' why I'm here?" I smirk, "Are you saying 'fate' put me here with you, that it's 'cause of 'fate' and 'destiny' that my mother betrayed me, that I have no father? They _chose_ to be that way, as_ I_ choose to be this way!"

"I'm saying you can't control everything, Hwoarang, that_ sometimes_ there _is _a reason for everything."

"Yeah, like your mom being murdered in cold blood?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Julia's trained herself well to hide her emotions, but a slight shift in her eyes and tightening of her mouth gives her away.

To my relief, she decides to ignore me. Otherwise, I think I may have been in serious danger of being castrated on the spot.

"I'm sorry. That was out of line...but...but you still have choices on how to face that everything."

"Yes you do."

"You're contradicting yourself."

"I'm not. I'm saying it's not set in stone."

"No, you can't have it both ways."

"You don't know that."

"Then prove me wrong."

The thing with mystical shit like fate and destiny is that you've no control. That's what I hate above all else.

The conversation ends there; we listen to the silence. I don't know how long we lay there in that indigo darkness, the moonlight gleaming pale on our skin. I think about her words. I think about possibility. I think about putting that mask back on and running away.

"Are you listening?" she finally utters.

"Yes," I whisper. My response, like lightning in a dark sky; I wait for the thunder.

She continues to look at me for a moment, as if trying to decide my worthiness.

"I loved many things. One of them was painting. Another was my mother. Yet another was a man," she begins.

"Jin Kazama," I reply without hesitation, and Julia nods. Who else could it be?

I don't know how long we lay there in the grass, me listening and she talking, talking and talking and talking. It's the most I've heard her talk since the day we met. But I take in every word. From her life on an Arizona "rez" to her love for Jin, from the moment her mom was murdered to the time she stumbled across me.

As she recounts her memories of Jin, I'm not surprised to learn that we had both been betrayed by love. It explains her bitchy behavior at least.

"And on this road," she continues, "I came across an art store owned by one of Jun Kazama's former teachers."

"Whoa, what?" I say, bewildered.

"I know," she murmurs, "what are the chances, right? Yeah I chose to be there, but why that one? I'd passed a dozen before-"

"Alright, alright, I get it."

She smiles once, then never again for the entirety of her speech.

"And I saw a mural Jun had painted. I saw her demise on the walls of that store. She knew she was going to die, but tried to save Kazuya anyway. I then realized that, if I wanted to live, I would have to stay on the road. I would have to save myself instead of trying to save another Mishima, like Jun did. And once I made that choice, I knew there was no going back.

"And so here I am," she finishes, holding out her arms, "painting my own mural."

"How do you know Jin's still following you?" I ask, more than irritated with my rival's romantic-and violent-history with Julia.

"I can feel him," she says simply.

"How long will you keep runnin', Jules?"

"Until I find a way to defeat him."

"And how will you do that?"

"You sure like to ask questions."

"Well, you know me. Always intruding where I shouldn't be."

Again she falls silent and sighs deeply, turning onto her side to face me, though her eyes are downcast.

So this is what turned these flames to ice.

"I understand," I whisper into the black.

When she looks at me finally, her eyes are shiny with unspilled tears. Angry tears.

"You understand nothing," she growls, gritting her teeth. "We're not the same, you and I."

"Well we are kind of," I smirk, then force myself to be more serious when I see the expression on her face.

"I don't understand everything," I admit, ignoring her aggression, "but anger, yes. Helplessness. Yes."

We still have a lot left to learn about one another.

"Please, I don't want your sympathy. It's sympathy that got me in this mess," she retorts. "I just wanted you to listen. I can do this, Hwoarang. I have it all...under control."

"Says the woman who believes things happen for a reason."

"Don't mock me. You will never know!"

She's crying now, no sobs, just silent, silver tears.

And then, after a moment, a whisper: "I-I'm afraid. I'm afraid."

Instinctively, I shift, gathering her into my arms, one arm curved around her waist and the other cradling her head. My fingers curl into her unbound hair, her cheek pressed against my chest, and this time the sobs do come, soft at first, muffled, but then more frequent, furious, staccato whimpers of rage and suppressed sorrow. The sound breaks my heart, and I pull her as tight as possible against me, her tears dampening my shirt, sobs wracking her body, small hands clutching at my tank top in angry fists. I kiss her forehead without a second thought, inhaling the smell of her hair.

"I'm tired," she chokes. "I'm tired of everything."

"I know," I soothe. "I'm tired too. I'm tired too..."

But she doesn't quiet, merely continues to weep, and I wonder how long she's had these tears locked away.

Unable to help myself, I pull away and lift her face with a gentle finger under her chin, forcing her gaze to mine. Again without thinking, I lean down, one hand cradling the back of her neck, and kiss the trail of tears on her cheeks, from each corner of her eyes to the delicate jawline, and back again, her salt on my mouth and tongue.

This only makes her weep harder, and this time I get desperate.

"Julia," I utter softly before pressing my mouth to hers.

_Stifle those sobs, give me your sorrow, I'll swallow it all. Just please stop crying._

I have no idea where this tenderness is coming from, but I don't care.

She responds immediately, pressing herself even harder against me to deepen the kiss, breaking away momentarily to gasp for breath before finding my lips again. I'm holding her so tightly she has no room to move her arms, her fingers clutching futilely at my shirt, grasping onto anything. Loosening my grip slightly, I free her arms, and as soon as I do they're around my neck, exploring my bare shoulders, fingers tangling in my hair; Julia pulls me even closer, if that's even possible. Her breath is sweet, fresh, a dark, hidden musk like the forest around us, and I feel as if I hold the earth in my arms. I hold in my hands life itself.

After gentle prodding, her mouth opens beneath mine, tentative at first but then urgent, hurried, and I oblige to her needs, caressing tongue and teeth and mouth, nibbling her lower lip, all the while holding her tight, as if she is a bird that might fly away should I loosen my grasp. My free hand smoothes up and down her side, along curve of waist and hip, careful to avoid anything lower than that, and then up her bare arm and down again. It feels so good I can't think straight. Losing myself...losing all sense of things except for this moment...I allow myself to lose control.

I know what a woman likes. I know where to touch her, where to kiss and lick and caress and whisper, 'cause I've done this many, many times. But all those times are forgotten, turned to dust, with Julia in my arms. This is like nothing I've known. I'm breaking my own rules.

Maybe because she means something more. Maybe because she's so strong, resilient, yet fragile too.

Or maybe just because of the beautiful way her mouth feels against mine.

I kiss her, hold her, skin like silk and her breath in my mouth, and feel something growing inside me, a longing, a warm, slow, restless ache that fills me up and sets fire to my skin. I feel alive.

_So this is what you taste like. So this is you. It is all beautiful._

So this is what love feels like.

Wait a minute. Wait, wait...

Oddly enough, we both pull away from each other at almost the same moment, breathing heavily, bodies stiffening but still reveling in the memory of what we'd just done. Feeling a bit disoriented, I close my eyes and try in vain to think of something else.

Julia shivers, then gently disentangles herself from me and sits up, knees drawn up to her chest.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, readjusting her clothing.

"Me too." No I'm not.

"Thank you...for your story."

"Uh, yeah. Yours too."

But our stories aren't done yet. Standing up, I breathe deeply, stretching my limbs. We'd both lost control. What now?

In the distance, I hear a wolf howl, long and low and lonely, a haunting nocturne capable of both skin-tingling fear and of breaking a longing heart. I listen to the wolf call again and again into the night; no pack replies. Nevertheless, he keeps howling his moonlight sonata.

"You afraid of the big bad wolf?" Julia says, attempting to lighten the mood.

"I _am_ the big bad wolf," I smile.

"I know that wolf," she replies quietly, hugging her knees again. "He's black, with yellow eyes. He's alone. Every night he sings the same song. I see him sometimes."

"You're crazy."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"_Crazy_."

This time she laughs, a genuine laugh, something she's never done before in my presence.

"I've never been called crazy," she chuckles. "I'm the most ordinary, boring person I know. Crazy things just happen to me."

"Yes and no."

The wolf howls again, and it seems closer this time. Smirking, I howl in return, a butchered mimic, but a howl nonetheless. Julia sits quietly watching me, as if waiting for something.

I am met by silence. And then...the wolf howls back.

Laughing in disbelief, I call to him once more, and am again met by his response.

"_This_ is crazy," I gasp, smiling, "isn't it, Jules?"

Julia only smiles softly. "It looks like you've both found your pack."

"What?"

But she's fallen silent again.

**Julia**

I know that wolf. He's been with me since I abandoned the coyote in Mexico. And now he's here beside me, pelt on fire with his coal eyes. He's alone. Every night he sings the same song.

I watch this wolf laugh and howl to himself in the night. My heart sings with him.

On intertwining paths we meet. Every night the moon. Every day the world at your feet, and yet nothing too.

And yet, impossibly, perhaps something this time. Something.

A flame in the darkness. A lost lullaby. A different painting.

Ashen hearts afire.

* * *

_"Love is the burning point in life, and since all life is sorrowful, so is love. The stronger the love, the more the pain. Love itself is a pain, you might say-the pain of being truly alive." _

_- _Joseph Campbell


	7. Koyaanisqatsi

**Chapter 7: Koyaanisqatsi**

_Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect._ --Chief Seattle, 1854

_Everything on the earth has a purpose, every disease an herb to cure it, and every person a mission. This is the Indian theory of existence_. -- Mourning Dove

**Hwoarang**

The impossible has happened.

I am in a shopping mall. And it was my idea.

Anything to have fun with the girl, right? Even though Julia seems nothing like the shopping type?

The mall is a pile of bricks graffitied with gang signs; initials in jagged switchblade-etched hearts; the expected "fuck-shit-bitch-whore-slut-mofo-sex" jargon; and a poor girl's cell phone number advertising "tit and ass" in big black Sharpie. Here lies the leftovers of packs of teenagers and their remnants of romance and fast-paced glory days, who think their love and freedom is for forever--or who are merely dying of boredom and find solace in this pathetic act of rebellion.

I remember those days.

But I was more of the egg-shit-and-piss-on-your-doorstep-and-cover-your-cute-suburban-house-and-brand-new-convertible-with-my-gang-sign caliber, and man were those murals beautiful. And I never even considered etching my initials with some girl's inside a heart, let alone share my actual heart.

I remember in primary school (yes I was a stud even then), one of my "ex-girlfriends" had wanted to do that. It was the trend to have a girlfriend in those days, and I wanted to try it out. So, naturally, I chose the most popular girl in my class. But, conquered territory gets mundane after awhile; come on, I was eight. Who gave a shit about "getting to know" a person? She insisted on writing our initials in a heart. When I refused to carve it into some damn tree she'd pout, but end up scrawling it in the stalls of the girls' bathroom with her oversized crayons.

I do remember writing my math teacher's and the cute lunch lady's names into a heart, big and fat on the blackboard when Mr. Park had stepped out of the room. I'd seen them kissing in the hallway when I'd gone to use the bathroom and, having been dubbed class clown and village idiot, I was always in the mood for gossip and a good laugh (still am). Needless to say, I was punished for three days, but it was worth it.

But what do you have to prove anyway? Is it reassuring or something? Is the feeling of it not enough so you gotta put it on display like some modern art piece for everyone to peer at and ponder? Gotta make the intangible tangible so you can make sure you're not just imagining shit.

Then again how the hell would Hwoarang the loveless, wandering invalid know.

Here's what I_ think _then: with genuine love you just feel it. You just _know_. It's already carved into your skin, into your heart, a permanent wound that'll scar and deform, your true red badge of courage. I look at Julia, and I know this is all true.

I look at Julia, and a part of me begins to hate her right then and there, hate so much that the carving in that wooden chest of mine deepens and bleeds. Rafe would be laughing his hairy Hispanic ass off right now if he saw me in such a state.

"Hwoarang, I still don't understand how you can be this far from home with no job, for this long, and have all this money."

Julia stares up at me as she licks her chocolate chip cone. I knew she'd start to get curious when I offered to pay for everything we did, including the two double scoop ice cream cones I'd just purchased from the fat white woman behind the counter. I wonder when she last got laid, the pitiful thing. Shoulda' cut back on the Twinkies and ice cream! Okay I'm being cruel.

"I was in a gang for six years, remember?" I say, biting into my peppermint bon bon with a grimace.

"So you live on dirty money," she states, unimpressed.

"Hey I earned that money," I retort, still recovering from the ice cream's frostbite. "It's not like I robbed people, or dealt drugs. That's not how my gang ran. We fought for that cash--literally."

"Oh," she says, "so I guess you're pretty good at it then."

"Girl, you are kickin' it with the number _one _hustla' in all of Seoul, maybe even in all of South Korea! You have no _idea _just how good I am."

"I'll put that to the test."

"There's no need for a test."

She licks her ice cream, her tongue white and black-speckled, and raises an eyebrow.

"Last time I remember, I was the one on top when last we fought," she smiles.

"Mmm, you know I like it like that," I tease, licking my ice cream seductively, and the Native woman nearly chokes.

We're still talking like when we'd first met. We "ignore" our attraction to one another, and tiptoe around the personal and the painful as if last night had never happened. Our awkward moments are so numerous that I've come to welcome them as the norm, especially since I'm usually the one who makes it weird. It ain't my fault she wants to be so uptight. But this is our agreed mode of communication--I think. With Julia you're never quite sure. Her moods are lethal sometimes, and poor dudes like me better watch the fuck out.

But things have changed, of that I'm positive. Ever since that moment in the forest. Verbally we avoid the memory, but both of us feel and remember every second of that night.

"Look, I get it, you're a tough chica," I smirk, "but right now we fight in virtual reality, and even there I'll kick your ass."

We reach the arcade, a dilapidated hole squeezed between the blinding lights of a department store and a perfumery's overpriced vials of vanity. The place is packed. There's mostly boys of course, with the sprinkles of girls here and there dragged along by their significant others. Then you get the occasional genuine gamer girl with her dorky glasses, cat ears headband, purse full of manga, and cheeks peppered with acne.

So I'm stereotyping, go ahead and shoot me. I just think the world's done its share of stereotyping _me_, so now it's my turn. Besides, its hella fun.

To my surprise, Julia seems to love the arcade. Her eyes darting, she detects an empty game in the corner and inserts two quarters.

"Ooh, a fighting game," I comment, eyeing the female fighters. "_Daaamn._"

"She's a_ video game _character, Hwoarang, conjured up by lonely, horny men who can't get any in real life," Julia chuckles, selecting a ridiculously muscled male fighter with brutal pectorals and brooding eyes.

Do all girls like that type? Must be why Jin is such a catch, the little dick.

"So?" I retort, choosing a busty, scantily clad blonde donning a pink mini skirt. "Sex sells!"

As we begin to play, Julia decimates me in two rounds. Taken aback, I feel myself getting competitive, and step up my game. I defeat her in round three.

"You know, these moves are kind of hilarious," Julia comments, her tongue sticking out as she kindly uppercuts blondie with a meaty fist.

"It's a _video game_, remember?" I smirk.

"Well yeah, but we're the real deal here. Wouldn't it be sweet if they made a video game based off of us?"

Knock out. Two to two.

"Yeah it would be," I laugh. "And I'd design all the chicks to look like this one here."

In two moves, I defeat her, Big Boobed Blonde giggling and blowing kisses, and the game ends. Gloating, I lift my chin in triumph, crossing my arms.

"What have you got to say now?" I sneer.

But before she can answer, Julia's body jerks as if electrocuted. She swivels around with a snarl, fists clenched. Just passing behind us is a gang of four men, three tall and muscled, one squat and pudgy. A few sported long dark hair, others with braids.

"Someone just grabbed my ass," Julia growls.

"Which one of you did it?!" I shout, muscles tensing, "Come on, pussies!"

As one they stop, then turn, laughing. The small pudgy one emerges, his yellow teeth bared.

"It was me," he grunts, looking Julia up and down with beady eyes. "I know a Native ass when I see one."

The two men at his sides guffaw, but the fourth directly behind him remains expressionless and cold, silently surveying the situation. I narrow my eyes, aching for a fight.

"Yeah me too," the Navajo woman retorts before punching Yellow-teeth full force in his gut with both her fists. It happens so quickly his friends don't know how to react, and can only watch as their fat little comrade collapses to the ground, wheezing for breath.

Snarling, one of the taller ones, a pockmarked bag of bones with two braids, reaches out for Julia, but my kick gets to him first, and soon he's joined Julia's molester on the floor. The third one finally steps into action and comes at both Julia and I, but I think she's been lusting for combat like me, because Jules doesn't back down. In fact, she smiles, fists raised, and nods once to me before we both proceed to beat down our attackers.

By now a circle has formed around us, the arcade occupants screaming and leering and thirsting for blood. Sadly, Julia and I can't give them a good show; our attackers are amateurs and are defeated too quickly. All the while, the man I assume is their leader merely watches and makes no move to assist his doomed friends. Once we'd sent his minions scrambling to the sidelines with bloody wounds and bruised pride, he begins to applaud us.

"That was great," he laughs, and Julia and I look at each other, perturbed.

"Right," I mutter, taking Julia's elbow as we begin to shuffle away.

"No, no, wait," the man calls. "I'm sorry we disrespected you. Come back here. Let us talk."

The leader comes towards us, leaving his sorry excuse of a gang behind, a lopsided grin on his face. He is taller than I am and leaner in build; his hair, black and long, hangs straight down his back against the baggy T-shirt that I know disguises bulging muscle. His eyes are kind, friendly, not as I expect them to be. He's also not that bad looking, which poses a serious problem for me when I see the look on Julia's face. She's definitely interested.

"I'm really sorry. I had no idea Terrence would do such a thing," he explains, smiling down at us. "You know Native boys, always wishing they were warriors. Makes them reckless."

I'm still speechless, but Julia laughs, "Oh tell me about it. I had to deal with that back at the rez."

"And where's that?" the man inquires, and I clench my fists at the way he gazes at Julia. Back. Off. Asshole.

"Arizona."

"Ahh, so Navajo I'm guessing?"

"Right. And you are...?"

"Blackfeet."

Oh great, now they're smokin' a peace pipe and sharing their wonderful Native-ness.

"_Ahem_, I hate to interrupt the peace treaty, but who the hell are you?" I demand.

"Oh uh...I guess I should introduce myself," the man stammers, running a nervous hand through his hair, which is shiny and long and fucking smooth.

Julia's practically drooling. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. No, she's drooling.

"I'm Luke Brightfire, and I--we--are all from the Blackfeet reservation not far from here."

I raise an eyebrow in response, then proceed to drag Julia away from the scene. She shrugs me off, however, and introduces us. Incredulous, my glare hardens.

"Cool. Do you guys wanna come back with us for some lunch or somethin'?" Luke offers. Julia eagerly agrees.

Behind him I notice his friends exchanging bewildered looks; my feelings exactly.

When Luke returns to tend to his wounded friends, I corner Julia.

"What are you doing? They just tried to hurt you!" I seethe.

"Do you know how long I've been without my people?"

"Why don't you just jump on the dick and get it over with."

"You know, a week ago I would have been offended by that statement," she smirks, "but I just knew you'd be jealous."

"What?! I am not--"

"You're so predictable, you know that?"

Am I really?

"Hey, I see dorky little Asians everywhere, but I don't wander off with one of them when they diss me like that!"

"Hwoarang."

"What!"

"He reminds me of my cousin."

"Who?"

"My cousin, Gabriel Red Hawk, the one I told you about. We grew up together. He was one of my best friends. Kazuya killed him for trying to defend my mom."

**Julia**

"Shit," Hwoarang exhales, shaking his head, "I remember now. He died the same day as your mother, right?"

"Yes. So, just let me do this, ok? Just for today," I say, looking up at him, "and then we can keep going."

Just let me relive a memory, relive something I'd lost and would never find again. Let me enjoy a moment, no matter how fleeting, of what was and of what can never be, so that I won't forget.

These moments, like the endings of a healing ceremony as the intricate Navajo sand paintings are destroyed in a single breath. These moments, like the plum-gold rays of sun on the back of yesterday, are breathtaking, but are always shifting, restlessly dancing and vanishing into the darkness, only to be reborn again.

If this Luke Brightfire, the spitting image of my dear cousin, is not a sign, then I don't know what to believe anymore.

The only thing I'm sure of is that all things beautiful are temporary. Like sand paintings. Like sunshine. Like love.

I have become a shadow in a place where change is the only constant.

Hwoarang nods. "Ok. Just let me know when you're ready to move on."

I stare at him for a few seconds in disbelief. "Do you...do you mean that?"

"I hate the idea," he smirks, "but if it makes you happy, then I'll deal."

Before I can sort out the emotions tumbling around in my chest, Luke returns with his gang, where he forces my molester to apologize for his lewdness. I laugh it off, anxious to get to the reservation.

* * *

The moment we set foot onto Blackfoot soil, Hwoarang blurts, "_This_ is it? A bunch of _grass_? Where the casino at!?"

I give him the most horrible glare to date, and the Korean man actually flinches--with a smile on his face, of course.

Thankfully, Luke takes it very well.

"Right down there, man," he chuckles, pointing, "Hope you brought lots of cash!"

Hwoarang rolls his eyes, but flashes a wary glance my way.

"Oh just get outta here and save me some face," I scowl.

Grinning, Hwoarang practically skips to the casino, Luke's gang leading the way.

"Jeez, where'd you find him?" Luke asks.

"On the side of the road," I reply, and the Native man laughs.

Luke and I talk for a long time about every day life, about the poverty and the soaring unemployment rates. It's old news to rez kids like us, but it's old news that doesn't disappear into some magic book shelf or statistic.

Handing me a piece of fry bread, Luke heats some leftover black bean soup. I wolf down the bread, commodity Indian food, but the familiar taste reminds me of home.

"You guys got a medicine man?" I manage to blurt between mouthfuls of food.

"Course," he smiles, "We got a few, actually, but the closest one, Alex, lives 'bout five minutes from here."

"Can I meet him?"

Luke raises an eyebrow. He resembles Gabriel so much that for a moment I can't speak. It's even in the way he moves. I miss my cousin so much it's unbearable--and it strengthens my resolve even more. My presence on this reservation is no mistake.

"Why? You wanna learn some crazy black magic?"

I stuff my face with more fry bread. Luke may be Gabriel's spitting image, but that's not why I'm here.

On the contrary, I need to end this dark ceremony. I want my life back. I'm going to do whatever it takes--even consult a stranger shaman for help. After all, Jin is no longer of this world, and it will take much more than physical combat to defeat him.

Black magic should do the trick.

* * *

I remember the first time I became seriously ill. Gabriel discovered me unconscious in the sheep grazing grounds and had run four miles to my mother's house for help. Gabe was eight, and I was six. It's like that on the rez; the next major establishment is at least fifteen minutes away. Only after I'd recovered did Gabe dare to joke about his four mile sprint, which could have easily taken his life at such a young age.

At first we'd thought it was heat exhaustion, which was common in such a climate. But I wasn't one for that kind of ailment. I am Navajo after all: I live, breathe, and laugh heat. So, I was quickly taken to Ya'atsos. There in her hogan she proceeded to stuff me with her best herbal draughts and organic remedies. When these did not work, Ya'atsos turned to her spells and her rituals, to her turquoise-gold and plum-crimson sand paintings.

We had now entered the spiritual realm.

The spiritual world is not to be taken lightly. If you believe in its goodness then you must also accept the darkness. Many people adamantly deny the existence of such a world. They cling to their religion and to their dreams of salvation, to an invisible, omnipotent god, yet they do not believe in spirits. How can there not be spirits? Do you not feel the pulse of the earth, the smell of the wind, the mysterious pull of the moon? How can one live so blindly and selfishly in a world that they believe to be "dead" and theirs for the taking?

People fear things that they cannot touch, see, nor control, and so they claim it's nonexistence. But what we cannot see nor touch is often more powerful than anything tangible.

The invisible never guarantees nonexistence. It is just an inability--or refusal--to see.

These spirits create a connection. Native people have always had a connection to the earth, to the sky, to water and air and star and to everything around us. We are a part of that energy, and we do not destroy that which we are a part of, for that can only mean self-destruction. When there is imbalance in that connection that is when sickness and misfortune fall.

On that scorching July day fourteen years ago, Ya'atsos managed to cure me. The rituals had worked. The sand paintings, painstakingly crafted, had been successfully obliterated in a single sweep of wind and breath.

But Ya'atsos can't cure me now. This time it is a sickness of the mind. It is a sickness of the heart. It is a sickness of the spirit.

Our Hopi neighbors call it_ koyaanisqatsi_--life out of balance.

The medicine wheel turns on a broken axle. The _iikaah_--sand paintings--lose their healing powers. Empty palms turned upwards.

Medicine people say that "the Way chooses you" rather than "you choosing the Way." Though the spiritual and the occult intrigue me, I have never had such a calling for the ways of the shaman. Ya'atsos attempted to teach me when I was fourteen. But when I demonstrated more interested in my mother's teachings of physical combat Ya'atsos eventually allowed me to "walk my own path."

Being a medicine man or woman is not a profession; it is a lifestyle. You live in two worlds constantly, and one usually learns the art at a young age. Once you open yourself to the spirit world, there is no going back. It takes years to become adept at the craft, and few ever feel completely confident in their abilities, because you just never know with the supernatural.

My life is--was--mastering my mother's style of martial arts, and then forest restoration and archeology. I am no medicine woman. Even if I meet with Luke's tribal shaman, it doesn't mean I can actually learn anything from him. In fact, it's almost certain that I won't be able to wield any "black magic" to defeat Jin Kazama, because I just don't possess the necessary skills. It's like never going to school in your _life_, and then walking into a college classroom on finals day and expecting perfect scores.

Nevertheless, I walk into that lecture hall and meet my new professor, Alexander Crow.

* * *

The crow is one of the most intelligent birds.

Alexander is peering at me, into me, with all of that intelligence, making me feel like helpless prey wriggling in the death-grip of a bird's talons. I sense this place's power. I sense this man's power.

"So you are the great wanderer woman that I have been seeing in my visions," Alexander rumbles, running calloused hands through a nest of long gray hair.

"You mean...you already knew I was coming here?" I ask, stunned.

"Of course not!" the medicine man suddenly exclaims, throwing back his head in laughter, "I'm just setting the mood. Ain't all Indians supposed to be clairvoyant?"

I laugh nervously along with him, unsure of what to make of the man.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he chuckles. "I do that to all my visitors."

He is deceivingly casual in both dress and demeanor; but here sits a messenger between worlds, a gnarled old man in physical form, yet young and powerful in spirit.

"So, Luke tells me you want to learn some Blackfoot medicine," Alexander begins. "You do know that this is impossible."

"I know," I reply. "But maybe you can still help me. Give me some sort of protection. Or advice."

"For what?"

Speechless, I am unsure of where to start. Alexander stares at me long and hard.

"The only reason why I'm giving you the time right now is because I can smell old magic in you," the medicine man says softly, showing the first signs of seriousness.

"What do you mean?"

"Someone must love you very much," he continues, "because you have about a dozen protective spells woven about you."

Michelle. I fight back tears. She must have made arrangements with Ya'atsos to protect me without my knowledge. My mother had truly loved me--and she had also been truly afraid for me.

"And that ring," Alexander says, pointing to my right ring finger, "is an amulet of a sort. Did you know that?"

I glance down at the silver band, the amber and turquoise stones glistening. My mother had crafted this herself using material from the heart of Arizona soil. In it she had instilled all of her love and joy--and a protection spell, apparently.

"No wonder I'm still alive," I say, smiling with a mixture of bitterness and nostalgia.

"Oh come now; you gotta give yourself some credit too. Protection spells and amulets are meant to complement the strength that the host already possesses. Had you been weak or less intelligent, the spells lose their power," Alexander explains. "And you've a very, very strong spirit."

Yeah right.

"I will help you as best as I can," he continues. "But why don't you start from the beginning."

"Well I...I..." I flounder, the memories inundating my mind, and the words escape me once more. I'm sick of telling this story.

"Julia, it doesn't take a person like me to recognize fear and desperation in someone's face. But I do feel an evil...presence...about you. You are a good woman being followed by bad spirits. So bad, in fact, that I almost turned you away when Luke introduced me to you. Do you know that? It scared me."

"Then what made you decide to help me?" I sigh, feeling drained.

"Because that is the shaman's purpose, my dear," he replies simply. "We all have a purpose."

"I suppose," I whisper, finally finding my voice. "I have been haunted a long, long time..."

* * *

I am silent for the entire drive back to the motel.

In my head, the medicine man's advice reverberates.

In my heart, I know that I am falling more in love with Hwoarang than I would like to admit. The night in the forest clearing had changed something for both of us. I had felt safe in his embrace, a sensation I had nearly forgotten traveling alone on the road. A sensation I..._missed_. Terribly.

In my hands I hold a small leather pouch filled with Blackfoot soil that Alexander had blessed. It would help me when the time came, he'd told me. For now it would act as an additional amulet.

However, it was Alex's words, not this soil, that provided me with the best protection.

"I would let yourself love that man you're traveling with," the shaman says.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, though my heart clenches. "Hwoarang and I are travel companions. That's all."

Alexander smiles knowingly, a sad expression that casts deep shadows onto the wrinkled rivers and valleys of his face.

"It seems that you have grown accustomed to losing things. You no longer appreciate the beautiful things that are found."

"All things beautiful are temporary," I whisper.

"Then you must appreciate them even more because of that brevity," he says softly. "But some of us are blind to the small blessings that make living worthwhile, and so they throw away all things. It's foolishness."

He mumbles a prayer under his breath, then adds, "You are strong in spirit, Julia, but not in heart."

The insult stings more than when that coyote had bitten me years ago. The medicine man finally gives me the pouch of blessed dirt, and I shove it deep into my jeans pocket.

"In order to defeat a demon for good, you must not exude negative energy. Bad spirits thrive off of negative energy," he says, the discussion returning to Jin.

"What do you mean? I thought you said I had a strong spirit."

"You do, but you've allowed so much vengeance and rage to cloud that spirit, to block out everything good that you find in your path. This negativity is why Jin always manages to find you so quickly."

"I can't help but feel angry. What Jin did was unforgivable," I reply.

"Yes, but you have become obsessed with avenging your mother, and we all know how productive vengeance is," the crow states casually, as if my story was trivial and easily solved.

"Look, Alex...I want my life back. But first I need to make sure Michelle rests in peace. You of all people should understand this," I nearly snarl, clenching my fists.

"The only reason why Michelle's soul lingers in this world is because she knows you would be like this. She knows you're in danger. If you do somehow kill this demon then that is great. Michelle is avenged. But then what? Have you considered that? Will you spontaneously become happy again? No Julia; you will continue to be haunted, whether by the misery caused by your past, or by the lonely present crumbling beneath your feet.

"Life for you will not return to normal unless you start trying to live and love normally."

"Love," I scoff, hating the direction the conversation is taking.

"That's right, Julia. Love is your true demon, not this devil from the east."

It's like an arrow in my chest.

"Only the envious and the blind say that love is weakness," the shaman said. "Love and become stronger. Love and see with new eyes. Love and appreciate every moment, every breath of air. You will then truly be, as you Navajo say, 'walking in beauty.'"

In my head, that conversation replays itself over and over.

In my heart, I know that Alexander is right.

I equate love with Jin. If I continue to think this way, no amount of revenge or Native American sorcery will help me get past this.

When we arrive at the motel, Hwoarang doesn't bombard me with smart remarks or sarcasm. Oddly enough, he's rather respectful. Serious. Gentlemanly. He even opens the doors for me, and then tries to comfort me by microwaving the left over fry bread Luke had given us before we'd left.

When I wouldn't eat Hwoarang sighs and packs it away into the fridge.

"Are you ok, Jiji?"

For the first time, I am not offended by the nickname. In response, I shake my head.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Another shake of the head.

The Korean man sighs once more, clearly frustrated, but he doesn't push any further and heads off to bed.

I don't know how long I sat in the kitchen, the single lightbulb illuminating a small round spot in the center of the table.

Maybe this can be my excuse. Maybe attempting to be "normal" can be my reason for loving Hwoarang. It's kind of wrong in a sense. Love is best natural and shouldn't need an excuse...but it's how I'm justifying it in my head. It's a starting point. It's opening the door.

Entering the bedroom as quietly as possible, I untie my hair and slip into my pajamas. I stare at Hwoarang's sleeping form; he's on his stomach tonight, legs and arms spread out wide to either side of him. Swallowing, I ignore the second bed on the other side of the room, pull back the blankets that cover Hwoarang, and slide under the sheets next to him.

The Korean man moans softly, his eyes opening.

"Is this a dream?" he croaks, shifting to accommodate my presence.

Keeping quiet, I drape his arm about my waist and press myself against his bare chest, enjoying his warmth, as well as the way his muscles flex at my touch.

"Whoa, whoa," he says, unsure of what to make of the situation.

"Can you just hold me?" I whisper.

I'm going to try and take Alexander's advice. But I also really, really need to feel safe again.

I feel his smile in the darkness.

"Like this?" Hwoarang murmurs as he wraps both arms around me and pulls me firmly against him.

I hold my breath when his mouth grazes my ear, his smell filling my nostrils. My heart's beating so fast; I hope Hwoarang doesn't notice.

"Yes. Like that."

He sneaks a soft kiss to my temple, tracing patterns on my skin with the tips of his fingers. I let him touch me, _want_ him to touch me. Feeling bolder than usual, I kiss his throat, my lips lingering over the sensitive spot. Hwoarang's breath hitches.

"Hey um, if you keep this up," he rumbles, his voice becoming deeper, "I _will _respond. And I _won't_ stop until you do too."

My face burns from the passion in his voice, my imagination flinging none-too-innocent images into my mind, body tingling with the thought of such possibilities--but, I tone down the affection.

"Sorry, I don't think I'm ready for that yet. I just...I just need some comfort."

Hwoarang sighs, but pulls me closer.

"Julia, I don't get you at all."

It's my turn to smile. "I don't either."

The night is cool and soothing, yet disorienting and unknown, blinding the eyes and forcing the hands to feel around clumsily for that knowledge and stability. But the warmth of him, the sound of his heartbeat against my ear and the protective clasp of his arms reassures me that I have found a foothold in that darkness.


	8. Desert Mirages

**You know what I realized? "Red Orchid" is the name of the Thai restaurant that Julia and Hwoarang went to – but it's also the name of one of Julia's moves in the game. Completely**** coincidental. I love it when weird things like that happen. Anyway, I'm finally updating this thing. Knowing me, it'll probably be another 5+ months until the next update. ~ Sage

* * *

**

_And I've had __**recurring**__** nightmares  
**__That I was loved for who I am  
And __**missed the opportunity  
**__To be a __**better man**_

"_Hoodoo" _– Muse

"It felt like nothing existed except this building reverberating with music you couldn't name...You want nothing when you are trying to forget the something that is everything."

- Francesca Lia Block, _Wasteland_

**Chapter 8: Desert Mirages**

**Hwoarang **

Julia's kicking me.

Viciously, mercilessly, with-all-of-her-might kicking me, in the chest, in the belly, eyes, neck, shin, shoulders—everywhere. I roll around in a ball, bawling and whimpering, the coppery blood filling my mouth and nostrils as each kick of her boots carves another gash, pounds another bruise.

'Defend yourself, fool!' my mind screams, but it's as if I've never known Tae Kwon Do. All I can do is cower before Julia's torture. She won't stop.

But then we're in that forest clearing, and I'm kissing Julia again, touching her, reliving that night under the stars—until I pull back and realize that Julia's turned into my mother. Sundok's pale face sneers up at me; horrified, I tear myself away, beginning to vomit.

"What's the matter, Hwoarang? Don't you love your mother?" she cackles, her almond eyes wild as the moonlit woods around her.

"Go away!" I cry, squeezing my eyes shut.

Between my violent retching I fling Korean curse words and insults at my mother, as if verbal abuse will somehow make her disappear.

Betrayer, demon, mirage—Mother.

"She will abandon you, as I abandoned you. You're worthless! _Shib seki!_" Mom howls, tearing at her hair and shirt. (_Piece of shit!)_

Then, it's the same clearing, but empty this time save for two wolves in its center. No…one is a coyote. A coyote feeds on—_devours_—the carcass of a black wolf, growling with pleasure as he tears and rips at the wolf's flesh, his eyes as red as his blood-soaked muzzle. Suddenly, the creature halts, lifts its head and stares at me, pink flesh and tufts of black fur adorning razor sharp teeth as blood drips from tongue and chin. He seems to grin, a grotesque, macabre expression of satisfaction that is disturbingly human.

As much as I try to close my eyes I can't bring myself to look away. The wind breathes a freezing chill over my flesh, immobilizing me to the scene. A malevolent darkness approaches, choking the sky and forest, blotting out stars and moon and trees. The coyote's eyes begin to glow red in the darkness. I can hear him growling low in his throat, white teeth bared.

I feel as if it is I, not the wolf, who is being consumed.

Coyote and wolf, mere cousins of the other. Perhaps brothers once.

Then…the coyote laughs a man's laugh. Terror rips through every bone and nerve and muscle in my body. I clutch at myself, trying to calm the spiders of dread crawling up and down my skin.

Slowly, as if savoring each bite, the coyote tears out the wolf's heart and swallows it whole.

* * *

I awaken with a gurgled scream, my body drenched in sweat. Though I have been freed from slumber, the nightmare is chained to my mind, clawing at the black behind my eyes and raping its way inside. Fear ripples through my body, tangling fingers of despair through my hair and skin. Gasping, I clutch at my heart, frantically searching the darkness for red eyes.

"Hwoarang, look at me. Look at me!"

Julia's voice calls me back to the present. But the moment she touches me, I shove her hand away, remembering how she kicked me.

"Whatever I did to you, I'm sorry," I sob, the tears coming out of nowhere. "_I know I'm worthless, okay?_"

"You had a nightmare," she says calmly, but she approaches with caution this time. "It's going to be all right."

I don't believe her at all.

"Hwoarang. Sweetheart. Listen to me."

What did she call me? I clutch at my chest again. Sweet. Heart. Heart?

Dazed, I barely feel Julia's cool touch on my forehead as the world spins into focus. Smoothing her hands down my cheeks, she tenderly wipes tears that I don't realize are streaming down my face. I resist her touch, embarrassed, but Julia coaxes me back into her arms.

"Come here," she soothes, cradling my face between her hands, "I'm here for you."

Sighing, I cling to her in an attempt to find some semblance of calm, afraid that the dream will return if I don't find an anchor to reality. I remember how _Ummah _used to hold me like this, how her touch seemed to heal every wound and childhood fear – don't _think _about that!

Julia's fingers twine calm into my sweat-soaked hair and weave reality back into my flesh, momentarily soothing a rapidly beating illusory heart. But, I am still caught between that gossamer-thin boundary of dream and non-dream. The nightmare has quieted, but lurks still, like a pair of eyes watching, hidden, from the darkness.

Julia kisses the top of my head. "It was only a dream. Everything's going to be okay."

_You're wrong_, I think to myself_._ Nothing is okay anymore. That is no ordinary nightmare; it was laced with something vile, something evil. I could feel it.

I bury my face deeper into her chest, but my mind keeps conjuring up the image of her kicking me. I keep seeing Julia's face become my mother's.

Though I hear it beating I feel an empty hole where my heart should be.

I feel devoured. Discarded. Left in the dark to fend for myself.

Perhaps that's where I've been all along.

* * *

For the following week I feel like I'd wandered into a dream. It's as if I'm trudging through blazing desert lands, unaware of the danger and imminent death as instead I am held prisoner by the undulating heat mirages dancing before my eyes. They entice my mind with illusions and promises of temporary bliss, of things that I am absolutely willing to follow and believe—even if it means pain and a slow, burning death.

I guess you can say that's what falling in love feels like.

But that's the thing about mirages. They're false. Temporary. Misleading. Idealistic. Dangerous. Eventually, you have to awaken out of the trance and feel the blisters forming on your feet and the sun's cancerous glare on your flesh.

For that same week the nightmare haunted me. By day, Julia held me in her eyes and in her embrace; by night, the nightmare held me in its horror, the coyote strangling me with its gaze. Sometimes it begins differently. Sometimes, Julia and I will be in the clearing first, and then Sundok will step in. Sometimes there's no Julia at all, just my mother laughing at me. But always there is the coyote and the wolf. I never tell Julia what the nightmare entails. After that first shameful breakdown I no longer allow Jules to comfort me, which only pisses her off of course.

After that, I choose to fear alone.

Several mornings later, Julia sits across from me with a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She wears one of my old Metallica T-shirts, her long braid unleashing loose strands of hair onto a shoulder. The glasses, a fragile shield, cast a glare in her eyes, the shadows and sunshine competing for sovereignty over her face as they dance and dart along the gentle slopes of cheekbone and jaw. She's beautiful.

It disturbs me that I can say that with the utmost honesty. But this time, I dare not wander into this dream. Rather than let the mirages run their course, I feel nervous. Confused. Resistant.

Afraid.

I haven't been this afraid since Baek fell into a coma nearly two years ago.

If love means to invest your whole self, what if you only have fragments to give?

What if she leaves me too? What if I'm not good at this?

I thought this was what I wanted. But now I'm falling so hard to the point where I need to be by her side to feel at ease. Never have I depended so much on a person—which is why I'm calling it quits.

Dammit Hwoarang, look at what you've done. This isn't supposed to happen. It was never part of the goddamn plan. But do I _ever_ have a plan?

This is why you never stay in one place for too long. Complications arise, shit _happens_, and there's no problem that can compare to that of a woman who's got your heart in her hands.

That road, that solitude, is calling. That wolf in my stomach, that black creature from the forest clearing, is howling again, tossing its head and gnawing at my mind again.

"_The hole will never be deep enough, Hwoarang."_

I found strength through loneliness.

"_It is better to have loved briefly than to never have—_

Crying out, I kick the kitchen wall, which leaves deep cracks in the white plaster. I'm so angry that I barely feel the ache in my muscles. At least I'm on fire again.

"Hwoarang," Julia murmurs, setting down her coffee. "You should tell me what you dreamt about."

"I'm fine," I pant, forcing myself to calm. "It was only a dream, like you said. Meaningless."

"I never said they're meaningless."

"Whatever."

"Did you…did you see a crane? You know, a big white bird?"

"What? No," I smirk. "What kind of question is that?"

"What about a coyote?" Julia continues, ignoring the curtness in my replies.

I hesitate a second too long.

"I didn't know this was an interrogation," I snap, throwing up my arms.

"Answer the question."

"No, there was no goddamn coyote."

Julia's eyes narrow behind her glasses.

"Why are you lying to me?" she asks, her gaze burning holes through my flesh.

Her words aren't an attack this time. The question is more of a sigh; there's sadness in her voice – disappointment. That's no surprise. I tend to disappoint.

"I'm not," I lie, the blood rushing through my veins. Her perception's beginning to irritate me.

"Look, I'm only trying to help you. I know more about this than you think."

"Just forget about it," I seethe, my legs itching for a fight. "I don't care 'bout your mystical Indian mumbo jumbo, so keep your little dream interpretations to yourself, okay?"

Julia's jaw clenches. At this point, I'm pretty sure I deserve an elbow in the nose.

"Is that how you speak to the woman you love?" she snarls, hands balling into fists.

"Who ever said I loved you?"

It's true. I've never said the words to her face, though it doesn't change the fact that I love her dearly_, too much_, and that she's the only woman I've ever loved in such a way. Still…I know how to hurt her, and this time physical combat isn't necessary. It's the only way I can be free of her.

But the look on her face, that fleeting flash of anguish in her eyes and mouth, makes me want to snatch back my words and hold her tight and kiss her and apologize for being a cold-hearted bastard. I'd take her to that clearing and say those three poisonous words, fucking _sing_ the words, and then maybe we'd actually make love and then all would be okay.

Instead, I keep my mouth shut and stare her down. I will not become lost in another illusion.

"I see," she whispers, rising from the table. "I thought _I _was the coward."

"Don't act like you know me," I growl.

"But I do know you, Hwoarang," she smirks, dumping the remnants of her coffee into the sink.

"Of course you do. You know everything. Because it's all 'meant to be,' right?"

"_Fuck _you," she snarls, suddenly coming within inches of my face, "You're just another mistake."

"Big deal," I retort. "I was Baek's mistake. I was my mother's, my father's, so what's one more?"

"Spirits, you really are fucked up in the head," Julia smirks, her dark eyes piercing mine once more. "To think that I once believed in you."

Those words hurt more than I expected. But, a wounded wolf is even more dangerous than one in perfect health.

"I don't know what you were expecting, but what we had wasn't real. I've never loved you, Julia. You're just another pretty face," I sneer, completing the assault. Tearing fresh wounds. Swallowing another heart whole.

For the briefest of seconds, a shiver slithers over my skin as I wonder about what I've just destroyed.

An icy glaze seems to freeze over Julia's face, crackling and hardening about nose and peony mouth, over brown-eyed secrets and over flesh I once held close to my own. I know that she's retreated into herself once again, flipped the switch to survival mode, as I have.

"There's a town about ten miles south of here, if the map I read is right," Julia says, finally breaking the empty stillness. She moves lightning quick about the motel room gathering her belongings and shoving them into her backpack.

"What?"

"I want you to drop me off at that town. And then I don't ever want to see you again."

It's like conversing with an answering machine.

"Fine."

**Julia**

I was right. All things beautiful are temporary.

Though I'm not at all surprised with what happened it still hurts. I thought that, after all that I'd been through with Jin, nothing of this kind could ever touch me again. Jin betrayed me after all, stood by as Kazuya slaughtered thousands, my mother and cousin included, for his own selfishness. So why should an insignificant, whiny, foul-mouthed thug hurt so badly too?

It hurts knowing I've been alone all along.

That night, as I undress for a shower, I realize that I'm still wearing Hwoarang's shirt. Stunned, I can only stand there, paralyzed and half naked in the motel bathroom, water rushing out of the showerhead for long, unrealized minutes.

Grabbing the collar, I cautiously lift the shirt to my nose and inhale deeply. The spicy, fresh musk of him floods my senses, instantly transporting me to memories of our brief time together. His breath on my neck, hands at my hips, fingertips stroking my skin, his mouth on mine. A feral longing seizes my gut, twists, _aches_—I drop the shirt from my face as if my fingers have been burned.

Furious, I tear off the t-shirt and step into the shower.

* * *

The next morning, I'm all but ripping a punching bag to shreds at the town gym. Other than pretending the bag is Hwoarang's lying, cowardly face, I'm here solo sparring because I simply miss fighting. My mother's teachings have lain unleashed for far too long. It's probably not the most attractive state for me to be in, red-faced and with my hair in a glorious sweating heap. But I don't care about what anyone's thinking. Caring too much never got me anywhere anyway.

A fit of coughing captures my attention. My attempts at ignoring it fails when I see a blonde man double over, hands on his knees, his body heaving uncontrollably as the coughs become more violent.

"Sir? Are you all right?" I ask, tapping him on the shoulder.

The blonde turns, forces a smile, which only triggers more coughing.

Taking pity on him, I offer him my water bottle, trying not to laugh at the sheepish look on his crimson face.

"Thanks," he wheezes, taking a swig. "I'm not contagious, I promise."

The English accent suddenly makes him twice as attractive; I grin, taking back my water.

"Sure hope not," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Julia, the woman who just saved your life."

The Englishman laughs, shaking my hand. "More like my dignity. Steve."

Steve and I get to talking then, nearly forgetting our original purpose of coming to the gym. Disgusted, I find myself easily drawn in by his charm; the blonde, however, seems oddly genuine. Pity that genuineness is such a rare trait nowadays. It's probably why I agreed to go dancing with him.

"So, there's this, ah, nightclub close by," he starts, his face heating up again. "Would you like to, ah…come with me?"

I gaze back into the blue eyes, trying to decipher his motives—then immediately stop myself. Fuck, stop thinking and just _do_. Besides, what perfect timing to have a rebound appear so fast? It's too bad Steve's so cute. He deserves someone less emotionally dysfunctional.

"I'd love to. But first," I say, raising my fists, "a few rounds."

"Umm…"

Before he can protest some more, I have him flat on his back in two moves. The blonde lies there for a few stunned seconds then recovers just as quickly.

"Now where the bloody hell did that come from!" he cries.

For the next half hour Hwoarang actually slips from my mind.

* * *

Tonight I opt for torn black jeans and a midriff-baring tube top I'd picked up at a thrift store earlier. The outfit's pretty tame for nightclub standards, but it reveals enough. I don't want Steve to get any crazy ideas after all, even if I'm using him as temporary rebound.

By the time we arrive, the club is already alive and throbbing with music, the bass pounding notes into my skull like nails into a wall. The techno-hip hop beat has my blood singing already, the heady odors of beer, floral perfume and sweat wafting into the air. Up ahead, fluorescent strobe lights stutter and stroke a stage hosting three go-go dancers. The lead go-go is a tall blonde wearing glow in the dark white lingerie and fur-lined, knee-high white boots to match. Blowing kisses into the darkness, she snatches at dollar bills, tucking them into the hip of her thong. I feel like a nun compared to her.

"That's Lili!" Steve screams into my ear. "She's new."

"You come here a lot I see!" I shout back, teasing. Who wouldn't enjoy a pretty young blonde?

"Nah," he protests. "Only when Christie's dancing."

"Christie?"

"Yeah. If we stay long enough you can see her."

How interesting that Steve's favorite dancer should share my best friend's name. I think about the Brazilian then, wondering for the first time in years where her travels had taken her. Christie would make a beautiful dancer; that blonde go-go would have some serious competition. But I force the thought out of my mind, reminding myself of why I'm here—to forget.

"Come on, dance with me!" I exclaim, dragging my new infatuation to the dance floor.

**Hwoarang**

I should have driven as far away from this town as I could. Okay well, technically I did. I drove for hours in the opposite direction, until my gas tank was nearly empty—and then turned around. Not bothering to find a motel, I sought out the nearest bar instead. Alcohol does wonders for painful memories after all. So here I am at some nightclub, Mirage, I think it's called, drinking away my sorrows like the typical tragic loser hero of redneck folklore—or should I say red-_haired_ folklore? I crack myself up sometimes.

Mirage—how I love life's ironies. Maybe that crazy beautiful Native had been right: some things _are _meant to be.

Emptier wallet, hollow heart. Swig. Fire. Burns like fingertips on untouched flesh, sears like innocence destroyed by pleasure, ashen memories and regrets, illusions unbroken. As long as I'm on fire I feel nothing, fear nothing.

I'm out of my mind, aren't I? Well, all the more reason to get tipsy. If I'm going to lose my mind I better be thorough about it.

"You here alone?"

Feelin' kinda dizzy, bleary-eyed, cheeks heated, music too loud, lights spin…n…spinning…Shit, I'm already buzzed. Anymore of this and I'm gone. Nevertheless, I gesture to the bartender for more.

"Hey Red, I'm talkin' to you."

A blonde go-go dancer wearing white lingerie turns me to face her.

"What do you want?" I grumble, my eyes devouring her slim, taught figure. She reminds me of how long it's been since I've slept with a woman. But there's only one woman on my mind tonight. How fucked up is that.

"Come on, lonely boy," she purrs, dragging me away from the bar. "I wanna have some fun on my break."

Taking another gulp of my beer from its plastic cup, I let her force me into a dark corner booth. The dancer then straddles me, hands on my shoulders, and proceeds to grind against my hips, her full breasts all but smacking me in the face. If I wasn't so buzzed—or still moping about Julia—I may have enjoyed the show. Instead, I admire the colors on the ceiling as the alcohol numbs my body.

"What's wrong?" she asks, pressing her hand to the zipper of my jeans. "Need something stronger, sweetheart?"

"Don't call me sweetheart," I mumble, swatting her hand away.

I recall the tenderness with which Julia had used the endearment. It hadn't been lewd or casual like with this blonde stranger.

Goddammit.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask, suddenly disgusted. "Get off me."

"Ex_cuse_ me?" the dancer snaps, leaning back, which is exactly what I need.

Because in the middle of the dance floor Julia is sucking face with some white boy—and it looks like she's enjoying herself.

Flinging the dancer off my lap, I down the rest of my drink and shove my way towards Julia.

**Julia**

Being here reminds me too much of Hwoarang's and my time at the Black Rose. But, I place Steve's hands on my hips and force myself to be carried away by the music. Soon, I really am lost in the darkness, in the music, in those blinding rainbow strobe lights. I'm so lost that it takes me a few extra seconds to comprehend that Steve's mouth is on my neck, then on my lips, and that I'm feverishly kissing him back.

"_Who ever said I loved you?"_

Again Hwoarang returns to mind—again, I push him out, wrapping my arms about Steve's neck. Who cares? Who's watching? What's the harm of one reckless night?

"_What's goin' on in your head, Julia?"_

Here, in this intoxicating place pulsing with music and sweat and sin, where names and faces don't matter, where heartache vanishes in the dark with the stranger press of skin on skin, I hope to temporarily forget it all.

"_I don't understand everything. But anger, yes. Helplessness. Yes."_

Steve's hands creep up my shirt. I don't stop him. Just please…make me feel good. Make me forget.

"_Hopefully later I'll get to know the real you, huh?"_

The music is deafening, lights dulling my vision as the bass slows to a low hum; I'm losing all sense of things. I don't want to be here. This isn't real. Nevertheless, I press myself harder to Steve in an attempt to make it all a reality; I close my eyes, deepening our meaningless kiss. In my mind, Steve's face becomes Hwoarang's, blonde locks afire with scarlet, blue eyes smoldering to dark brown, charming grin to arrogant smirk…

_"Just dance, Jules. Let go. Forget."_

I've never been good at forgetting. He knows that.

Reality does hit me then; the memories are still there and aren't ever going to leave—not tonight, at least, and not for many more nights. No amount of charming foreigners and lengths of road will ever help me disguise that reality. All at once, the smells of the club are too much to bear. I squirm against Steve, trying to break free from that suffocating crowd, a gesture he mistakes as loving grinding. But the music shreds my skull, beer spills on my shoes and jeans, bodies press and caress too close, as the strobe lights blur and whirl like a drug-induced hallucination.

_Get out._

After a few awkward minutes, I manage to tear myself away from Steve, leaving him grappling with empty air.

"Are you all right?" he asks, brow furrowing.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, backing away.

The concern on the Englishman's face deepens, which triggers more panic on my part. But, as he leans in to take my hand, a vicious flying sidekick sends the blonde reeling into the crowd. The culprit, a man wearing a black leather jacket, turns his back to me as he searches for Steve's place of landing. It's too crowded to tell.

But before he can continue his assault, I seize the back of his jacket with one hand as the other hardens into a fist, preparing a brutal uppercut. This moron messed with the wrong people.

Then, in the briefest of seconds, the man turns to look at me with familiar eyes.

Damn the sudden flutter of joy in my heart.

But, like a moth in a thunderstorm, the joy sputters and dies. Tightening my hold on his jacket to keep him in place, I let my fist fly. Hwoarang's head snaps back, blood as red as his hair spewing from nose and mouth.

"Fucking hello to you too," he yells, spitting out blood. A girl near him recoils in disgust, cursing him, but Hwoarang ignores her. His eyes never leave mine.

But I'm not in the mood for a round of his petty verbal fencing. With a shrill war cry, I lunge for the Korean man, fueled by a blinding rage and by the memory of his sudden desertion. The ferocity of my attack surprises even me; I feel possessed. At first, all Hwoarang can do is block my strikes: another uppercut attempt, Raging River and a triple palm explosion, bow-and-arrow kick. But it's the suplex that gets him. The Korean smashes to the ground with a muffled grunt, but doesn't attempt to rise.

"Defend yourself!" I scream, beginning to kick him in frustration. I know he's stronger than this, yet I watch as he curls into a fetal position and makes no move to fight back.

By now a circle has formed around us, the club goers jeering and grinning with the promise of violence. Where the hell are the bouncers? I need to get away from this place. But something inside me, something beyond my control, roots me to the spot. It's a scarlet fury I can't name, a crazed sorrow that cannot be stopped. It's no longer just about Hwoarang. It's my failure to protect my mother. It's my failed intuition when I realized too late what Jin really was. It's my failure to move on, my cursed luck for choosing the wrong ones time and again. With another yell, I continue to attack until I'm panting with fatigue, sweat drenching my clothes and hair.

"Are you satisfied?" Hwoarang calls from the floor.

I reply with a kick to his head, which the Korean blocks with a forearm.

"I'll take that as a no," he replies, but finally rises.

Despite my exhaustion, I swipe at him again. But Hwoarang is quicker and seizes me in an impossibly tight bear hug.

"That's enough, Jiji," he growls, pressing so close I can count the beads of sweat on his skin.

The smell of him floods my senses, like the night I'd discovered I was still wearing his shirt. Bruises already begin to form along his cheekbones and jaw, while blood dries and cakes on his mouth and nose. Why doesn't he just fight back!

"Get your hands off me!" I exclaim, squirming in his arms.

"Julia!" he cries, leaning in close to my ear. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry. I just—I need to tell you that I—"

But Steve, having finally recovered from Hwoarang's kick, is now pummeling the Korean, and I make no move to stop him. Turning, I search for the exit, hoping to slip into the crowd unnoticed; this is getting way too dramatic for me. My plan is foiled when I collide into the blonde go-go dancer. Isn't she supposed to be on stage?

My eyes turn to the stage then, where another dancer has taken Lili's place, a bronzed-skin, bikini clad go-go in the middle of a break dance routine. She looks oddly familiar…

"You!" Lili shouts, shoving me slightly. My gaze falls from the stage to meet the blonde's.

"Out of my way," I reply, trying to sidestep her, but the girl has other plans.

"You're the bitch who ruined my fun," she snarls.

"Listen, I really don't have time for—"

Lili continues to shove me backward, however, sneaking jabs and punches, until I'm almost back to where the bouncers have now taken a hold of Steve and Hwoarang. But the next time she comes at me, I palm strike her in the nose, seize her right arm, twist, and pin it to her back. The dancer screams, but I stop just before the bone snaps. One twitch from her and I'll be all too happy to maim the little nuisance. But Lili remains motionless, her last act of defiance a mere glare.

I force her to feel the pain for a few more seconds, then release her, fleeing just as two burly bouncers dig their way through the crowd towards me.

It's time to start running again.

**From the rooftop… **

I watch her escape through the door of that stinking hole, her clothes spattered with his blood, knuckles red and raw. It's the old Julia I know, that cold, fierce Julia who thought she could run away from me. Her fragility and her fury, her unyielding determination to survive at all costs—it's all so…tantalizing.

That fool thought he could win her back. He is so easily seduced by the dreams I send him, so easily duped and defeated. It's no wonder he could never beat me, the coward. His mind lacks the strength, unlike Julia, who resisted the dreams I tormented her with.

That fool thought he could make her happy.

It's not so hard to find the darkness in a human heart, not so hard to tug at it and twist it into something monstrous. Julia's proven quite the challenge, however. Regardless of the shadows that cloud and choke her life, she refuses to be tainted.

I've kept quiet for a long while, merely watched and waited.

But it's been such a long time, my love.

You'll be seeing me very, very soon.


	9. Diamonds

_**This chapter was a pain in the neck to write, and I'm too fed up with it to go back and edit it more. Hope it turned out okay. ~Sage

* * *

**_

_And I've always lived like this  
Keeping __**a comfortable distance  
**__And up until now  
I had sworn to myself that I'm  
__**Content with loneliness**__  
Because none of it was ever __**worth the risk**_

_Well, you are the __**only exception…**  
And I'm on my way to__** believing**_

"_The Only Exception"_ –Paramore

"And I think now that fate is shaped half by expectation, half by inattention. But somehow, when you lose something you love, faith takes over. You have to pay attention to what you lost. You have to undo the expectation."

- Amy Tan, _The Joy Luck Club_

* * *

**Chapter 9: Diamonds **

**Julia**

I pull out the crinkled map of the United States I'd swiped from a gas station somewhere between Arizona and Montana, and peer at the red marks I'd scribbled the days previous. Little arrows and haphazard circles around potential cities and states I want to visit—not like I have a _plan_. But it's okay sometimes to play pretend that you actually know where you're going. It keeps you from becoming rabid from too much road.

This time it's Oregon.

Oregon's a secret beauty, the contemplative, quiet sibling everyone overlooks in favor of the flamboyant and infamous. Ask any American what "West Coast" means to them and they'll likely forget Oregon exists. The state is sandwiched between two greats after all: a rainy, temperamental, gray-eyed Washington above it, with its depression-inducing mood swings and coffee cults; and the hotheaded, glorified, platinum blonde California below it, a beach bum nirvana and the birthplace of stars, gold mines and false teeth.

It's why I chose Oregon. It's not a cliché. Few discover it. Just a hideaway spot for those weary of the rain or for the ones burned by the sun.

After about twenty hitchhikes and ten truckers, I manage to get to Oregon within days. The journey isn't exactly peaches and cream. Ninety-nine cent coffee and convenience store faux McDonald's McMuffins—"Quick n' Easy, Hot n' Fresh!"—are my breakfast, lunch and dinner for a week. For the first couple days I barely sleep, muscles tense and with my buffalo knife at the ready should any of my travel companions try anything stupid. Other than a trucker's failed attempt at copping a feel—resulting in a swift kick to the crotch—I reach my destination unscathed.

I try not to look like a tourist as I wait on the brick inlaid street corner for the "walk" sign to flash. Then again, Portland is a city so eclectic that maybe no one will notice. People here range from the starched-and-pressed three-piece suit businessperson to the neon-haired, pierced and tattooed starving artist. Families and their crying babies share the perfectly manicured streets with the ragged and the homeless.

Bronze water fountains and animal sculptures dot the sidewalks, protected under trees and lampposts bearing hanging flower baskets overflowing with creeping Jenny and impatiens. Every fifteen minutes or so the TriMet train wails its arrival, taking people anywhere within the Portland metro area for cheap—or, if you're keen, for free; the conductors never check tickets. Upscale sushi bars, dingy tattoo parlors and family-owned Mexican, Greek and Thai food joints often share the same strip of concrete. And on every other block, I kid you not, there's a Starbucks.

If I want to, I can disappear here.

"Can ya spare a dime?"

I look down at a woman about my age. She sits cross-legged on the sidewalk holding a cardboard sign advertising her misfortune in black Sharpie marker. Her oily blonde hair hangs like dead snakes from beneath a frayed beanie hat, a silver stud glistening in her nose; she smells like she hasn't showered in days. Her ample cleavage and sunburned arms are sheathed in vibrant tattoos: the typical orange koi fish leaping from Japanese style oceans, skulls entwined in roses and thorns, and a black wolf's face on her left breast, over her heart, yellow eyes peeking out from beneath a sweaty tank top.

I might have been compassionate save for the venti Starbucks iced latte at her jeaned knee and the fat, well-fed Saint Bernard at her side.

"Not today," I mutter.

Downtown Portland is rampant with panhandlers, most of them twenty-something-year-olds who got bored with loving parents, college and privilege, so decided to take to the road to "find themselves."

If only _that _was my reason for this wanderlust.

"Come on. Just a dime to support an aspiring artist," the greasy blonde insists.

"Tell me," I begin, turning to her in disgust, "If you need a dime so badly, how are you able to afford a six dollar cup of coffee? Have a little _pride_ why don't you."

"Man, _fuck_ you, bitch."

"Right back at you."

I abandon her there as the light changes to green, being careful not to trip on the TriMet tracks crisscrossing the road.

It isn't because I lack the extra change. The Navajo Nation is the largest Native American tribe to date, as well as one of the wealthiest. Regardless, I'm not made out of money; I have enough to survive. I'm not, however, so frugal that I can't spare some compassion.

It's just that I'm sick of liars. I'm sick of being taken for a fool. I'm sick of helping the unworthy.

* * *

The hawk's scream slices through sky and cloud like a knife, scalping blue flesh in one chilling shriek as it dives for its prey.

The rabbit's shocked death cry echoes through the parched canyons, but is silenced in seconds as the hawk sinks razorblade talons into its flesh, curving inward to crush muscle, sinew and bone.

"_Ya'at eeh_, Cousin," I call out, eyeing the bird with a lazy smile. "What took you so long to come visit me?" _(Hello)_

Flipping a red tail in my direction, the hawk turns his back to me and devours his meal in privacy.

"Am I…am I _dead_, Cousin?" I muse, smiling wider.

It can only be because of death that I am able to see you now, is it not?

"It's easy to be dead, huh. Get to eat all the rabbit and mice you want. Is it a nice life—excuse me,_ death_—here in the arms of The Creator?"

The hawk tears at the rabbit's flesh, swallowing fur and entails in greedy gulps.

"You were never as fierce as your namesake, Gabriel Red Hawk," I tease. "You were just my wimpy cousin who held my hand when your mom told us ghost stories. Cora was a good storyteller, wasn't she?"

The hawk shrieks at me now, wings flapping as he holds me in a golden glare. He seems to mock me, argue with me, but he keeps his distance.

"Hey Gabe, you got some blood on your talons."

For some reason I think this is the funniest thing in the world; I start laughing like an idiot. Bloody talons, bloody feathers. It isn't anything pretty to look at, let alone amusing. But I keep laughing anyway. Apart from the fact that my cousin was a messy eater, the hawk reminds me of how Michelle used to tell me not to meddle in other people's problems. "Live and let live." Otherwise, I might end up with unwanted blood on my hands.

I look down at my palms then, but I can't make out what I see. It's too blurry.

As if weary of my pointless remarks, the red bird spreads his wings and takes to the sky, abandoning me in a canyon as parched and empty as my heart.

I feel a chill slip over me then, but it's oddly calming, soothing, thick and safe as a Navajo blanket.

"Ya-hey Cousin."

Gabriel is at my side, his long black hair falling around his face. He's wearing his favorite T-shirt, that sun-faded blue one with the medicine wheel printed in front, as well as a white bandana, which glows blindingly in the sunlight. He smiles at me, but the sun is too bright in my eyes to make out his other features.

Blink. Once. Twice. The black hair vanishes into shorter, redder strands, kind, gentle eyes morphing into deeper, sensuous almond-shaped ones that peer effortlessly into my mind. I can't read the expression on his face at all.

"Julia. You were right. It's not set in stone."

Moments later, I awaken alone in a silent motel room. The emotions fill my chest like water in a cup, overflowing with aching life; a deep sorrow, an impossible happiness and bitter nostalgia all at once, with the hunting hawk's screams still resounding in my ear.

Dreams always feel real while you're asleep. It's only after you awaken that you realize it was all just another illusion, just another mosaic of mind-manipulating emotions. And yet you just can't shake that strangeness from your limbs, from your thoughts. You know you've just experienced _some_thing, because it clings to you yet, pins you to dreamscape like meat to a carving board, tugging at your psyche with fleeting glimpses of the unexplained. It's scarier when you know you have no control. When you're thrown, unwilling and defenseless, into your mind and are forced to watch and wait for its passing before sun, pinch or nature's clock slingshots you back into an even stranger, more painful reality.

But sometimes, if it's a good one, you want so badly for that dream to be real. Go back to sleep, you urge.

But by then everything's already changed.

So then you write it all down upon waking, as much as you can remember at least, and read your dreams over and over, like a map to your subconscious, an outdated field guide to your inner crazy. When introspection fails you might consult dream interpretations on the Web, where everyone claims they're psychic, boasting ludicrous names like Alastair Star Dreamer or Lucinda Clairvoyance. Weary of artificial wisdom, perhaps you'll turn to the genuine dreamers, eccentric medicine men with their spiritual Excaliburs and wads of sacred earth.

It's just the lost seeking meaning when all other tools have failed. When the wandering road has finally met a dead end. When you're haunted by day as well as by night.

But sometimes you have to accept that some dreams aren't supposed to be analyzed or realized.

They are to remain dreams forever, wisps of fantasy, nothing more, because some are too dangerous to pursue. Your mother told you this. Even the wise woman of your tribe tells you this. But you're too stubborn to accept that, too arrogant to accept that you can't possibly solve everything—that you can't save everybody and make every dream of flesh and bone. You decide you'll prove them wrong. It's _your_ life after all.

So you set yourself up for failure. Every. Single. Time.

And yet you're still curious. You pretend you don't care, you feign independence, when all you want is a little taste of that dream. You still wander, with your heart as well as with your feet.

But now you've seen too many dreams shatter. One dream destroyed your family, the other your faith. Now you wish you never tried going back to sleep in hopes of a happier ending.

Because you've learned, time and again, that there is no happy ending. In the end, we all wake up.

Stagnant, vulnerable, you resort to trapping yourself behind veneers of strength, behind brown glare or acetic word, fists or cold indifference. Just like before. You can't afford any more wounds; the benefits no longer outweigh the costs. All dreams, happy or sad, are dangerous. You have to convince yourself that you're strong, so you go to extremes and build yourself a prison of diamonds, waiting in silence for that one soul brave enough to chisel away at those indestructible walls.

So far none but one has succeeded—and now you can never, ever be free.

He's living proof that you don't have to be asleep in order to dream—proof that some dreams aren't meant to come true.

I don't love him.

I don't.

I can't.

I shouldn't.

**Hwoarang**

I don't know why I'm here.

Let me rephrase that: I don't want to _say_ why I'm here.

I'm lying in that same clearing, where I'd held Julia in my arms no more than two weeks ago, where she'd sliced open her heart and offered it to me, bleeding. Once you start sharing secrets like that, secrets from the deepest hidden corners of your ugly, wounded heart, there's no turning back.

If I concentrate hard enough, I think I can almost smell her hair, feel her pressed up extra close against my chest. I think I can feel my mouth on hers…

But no, it's just the wind again, just the trees watching me and the sky, silent and steady, with its infinite twinkling eyes. Even that wolf is gone. He doesn't sing tonight.

Here I lie in that haunted, quiet clearing, a place emptier than my heart.

I feel like I'm in some cheesy Korean drama, pining for a lost love, angsting over a bad breakup whilst lingering somewhere beautiful and nostalgic. Of _course _everybody does that. Except Julia isn't a pale, rail-thin, soft-spoken Korean damsel dying from cancer or defying her parents. We don't always unintentionally meet up in exactly the same place at exactly the same time—preferably a little café or near a picturesque water fountain when it's raining—in Seoul, where you're lucky if you see the same stranger's face twice. Or maybe I'll knock over her books and instantly fall in love with her as I help her pick them up.

I despise those dramas. Life doesn't work that way. It's not predictable. Things don't end up perfect eventually.

If you don't chase what you want, you can easily let the best things slip away. Maybe fate may bring you and someone else together. But it's what you do with it that matters. It's the choices you make that determine if that preplanned fate will actually work.

Hypo_thetically_, if it _is _fate, then I just killed it. Perhaps fate determines that she and I are meant to meet—but I chose not to stay. You see? Fate still happens. We meet. But choice—I leave—likes to fuck things up. Either way you can have both.

"_You're contradicting yourself."_

"_No I'm not. I'm saying it's not set in stone, Hwoarang."_

Blink. Once. Twice. Did that really just happen? Did I just compromise with my mind? I, a staunch advocate for choice, just reasoned with myself that some things can be meant to be.

Rising from the grass, I abandon the clearing and walk toward my bike parked several feet away. I allow myself to remember again, remember everything.

Remember why.

Remember why not.

* * *

"You think you're so tough, eh? Think you're so cool. You ain't nothin'!"

Those were the words of my soon to be best friend Yong Jae. But first, he had to be my enemy. Boys are stupid like that. If a boy's cocky, girls simply avoid you. But if you're a boy facing a cocky boy, you feel as if you have to prove something. You gotta knock 'em down, or make them give you a good reason for being arrogant as hell.

"I_ am_ tough, _um chum sekki_!" I'd retort, not knowing what that meant at the time, but understanding that it was some sort of insult. I thought I heard _Ummah_ call _Appa _that once or twice. Probably. _(Bastard)_

Yong Jae, with his bird's nest blacker-than-night hair and legendary neon-yellow sneakers, was as tall as I was, but was the scrawniest kid I'd ever seen. He'd make up for it once puberty decided to take pity on him; but for the first thirteen years of his life, he was a grinning bag of bones and untrimmed hair, with a mouth filled with too much courage.

Yong Jae and I were eight when we first met. We attended the same _dojang_ where, everyday, we fought for our _sah bum nim_'s adoration. Baek was pleased with both of us, but I noticed how he especially watched me out of the corner of his eye when I practiced. I teased Yong Jae about it constantly, bragging that I was our mentor's favorite. Whenever he made mistakes, I'd jeer at him some more, egging him on, laughing as he got red with rage when he couldn't break a wooden board or couldn't remember his _pumsae_. _(Forms/patterns in Tae Kwon Do)_

It was only after I'd demolished Yong Jae three times during sparring when he decided that I was better off as a friend rather than a rival. See? I had plenty good reason to be arrogant. The rest, as they say, is history. Yong, as everyone called him for short, would be there when Sundok and Jahalang weren't; when I failed a test or was punished for disobeying a teacher; when I was angry and sad over nothing; or when I was bored and happy and felt like razing anthills and throwing rocks at rich people's houses for the hell of it. It was Yong who kept me sane all those years I was alone. A rival gangster would eventually shoot him to death when he turned sixteen—but that's a different story, one I prefer not to think about.

I remember we discovered this creek that no one had explored yet, except for old man Kyung with his old-fashioned fishing rod and grasshopper lures. That old geezer knew everything about our neighborhood anyway, so we decided that he didn't count. I remember the water was still clear, unlike every other river and pond surrounding Seoul and its suburbs. Yong and I could see straight to the bottom where the sun dappled the colored stones and made the fishes' fins glisten like crystals. It was back when I still had an imagination, when I still thought anything was possible. Yong and I conquered dragons in that creek, caught fish with scales made out of diamonds, climbed trees with golden fruit, and we scared away any kid who dared venture onto our secret place.

One summer though, after we'd both turned ten, the creek started to get murky. Its waters began to shimmer with iridescent rainbow streaks, which I thought looked kinda cool before I found out it was oil. Fish started dying; old man Kyung didn't come to the creek anymore. The cranes and herons that fished its waters had long gone, leaving behind long white feathers and empty nests. Soon, the creek began to stink, and Yong and I decided it was time to find other places to play. But, being the childish idiots we were, we decided to do some sort of farewell ritual and visit the creek one last time before we abandoned it for good. Kids are always sentimental about that kind of crap, and I was no exception.

Yong had been held up with studying, as usual—his mom was the biggest grade Nazi you ever saw—so it was I who reached the creek first.

I heard voices coming from somewhere deep in the trees, a little ways off the creek path. Thinking that someone had violated our territory, I rushed toward the voices. Even if that water stank like somebody's ass, it was still my creek for today. Squinting into the trees, I could make out two figures entwined, whispering and giggling to one another.

"Hyah!" I screamed, leaping into their field of vision.

I wished I'd waited for Yong to finish his studying.

My mother and a man who was not my father stood before me, looking startled yet smug at the same time. Sundok didn't have a shirt on, and I was too shocked to look away. Her cheating, lecherous lover laughed slightly and said something to her in Japanese—a fucking _Japanese_. I knew very little Japanese, only the few phrases I'd picked up from tourists and classmates living in Seoul. But I understood him this time; he'd asked my mother who I was, and if she knew me.

He must have noticed the stunned recognition in my face upon seeing Sundok. I felt my fists balling up then, tears welling in my eyes; but I couldn't run. I couldn't fight. The strength I had always boasted about had suddenly disappeared, becoming choked and polluted like the creek flowing at my feet.

"He's nobody," she answered in Korean.

Still stunned, I could barely move as she approached and slapped me hard across the face. Once. Twice. I stumbled backward the second time she struck me, but I never cried out.

"Go," she said, her voice and face as cold and hard as stone. "Go tell everyone what you saw. I don't care. I've never cared. You'll still be nothing."

My cheek still stung that night at dinner._ Appa_ had cooked this time and noticed that I didn't say a single word. My parents didn't talk to one another much anymore, except to discuss finances and grocery shopping bullshit, so it's usually their squirrely son who talked and filled the silence. But tonight I had nothing to share.

"_Ah deul_? Hwoarang-ah? _Gwaen chan ayo?" _my father asked, wondering if I was all right.

I shrugged, stuffing my mouth with rice. Jahalang rarely missed a beat though; he noticed how my eyes flickered to Sundok sitting inches away, gorging herself on my father's cooking as if she lacked a care in the world.

"Where were you today?" Dad asked softly, eyes darkening as his gaze shifted to my mother. "What did you do to my son?"

I left the table then and slipped out the back door so I wouldn't hear them fight.

The next morning my mother was gone. The dishes from last night's dinner were still in the sink. Broken glass dusted the floor. She left a note on the table for Dad and me, condemning us both as she revealed her lover's name and why she hated her life with us. Dad became even quieter than normal, and he seemed to never leave the couch, his cheek resting on a fist as his eyes watched, but did not see, the blaring television. He'd be like that for the next three months, right up until he abandoned me too. Yong kept trying to distract me from the whole thing by talking about Tae Kwon Do, the latest video games and the like, but for long months I'd become like a shell. Hollow, confused, angry. I was so angry sometimes that Baek banned me from the dojang for days, which only fueled the anger tenfold. I used this untamable rage to destroy anything that would make my legs and fists ache—tables, chairs, punching bags, other neighborhood boys—especially if it meant for even one second that it would stop my heart from hurting.

Later, that creek dried up. When I was thirteen, the city filled it with cement and built some cookie-cutter suburban houses there. Everything the same, everything perfect and fake, as if something wild and beautiful had never existed before it.

After my father abandoned me, leaving me in Baek's care, I vowed never to fall in love. I did not want to become broken like my father. I did not want to feel another woman's betrayal. I learned to depend only on myself and on the few who truly cared, like Yong, like Baek.

After that every relationship I've had with a girl has been fucked up.

The only one remotely close to greatness has been my moments with Julia. My time with her has been anything but perfect, but since she semi-beat me to a pulp—which I _allowed_ her to do—I haven't been able to get her out of my mind.

I had her too. She let me in, and that's the worst part. Julia has an unprecedented understanding of my heart and mind; she knows how dark and scarred and messed up I've become, how perverted and sarcastic and temperamental I can be, but she takes me for everything I am. When she looks at me, I'm the only one in the world in her gaze. When she holds me, I feel as if all fears and bad luck evaporate. And when she weeps, when she hurts, I feel like killing the source of her pain, tearing it to shreds to quell her tears, and then kissing her and holding her close, close, close. I've never…_cared_…so much before. And I threw all that away, because I saw myself becoming my father—falling in love with a traitorous illusion.

But that's not true at all. Julia's the most real thing I've ever known.

I'm not worthy of her, but I think I might live in regret if I don't follow her to Oregon and at least try to win her back.

Oh she doesn't know of course. When she told me to drop her off at that town, I took a peek at that Pollock-esque little map of hers and found out where she planned to go next. Oregon seems like any other boring place, hopefully not so much as Wyoming or Montana, but that's where I'm headed.

It's hard wanting—needing—someone so much. I'm independent by habit, but not before it was forced onto me. Everyone I have ever loved or cared about has vanished from my life.

Sometimes I feel like I'd rather have thousands of nightmares about that red-eyed coyote rather than see Julia again.

But once you start not being able to sleep, not being able to see the road ahead without that someone _with_ you, you're doomed.

This time I really have caught a fish with diamond scales. The problem is that I'm the one who helped poison the waters she thrived in. Unable to swim, she's metamorphosed into a white crane, abandoning water for sky where she feels freer, somewhat safer and away from the toxic waters that impede her life.

I'm sick of being that angry little boy on the edges of a polluted creek, running away and boasting pretend strength when inside he wished he had parents and hadn't had to bury his best friend.

I'm still a cynic when it comes to love. It's still painful. It still complicates everything. It still scares me like nothing else.

But this time I know it's worth it.

* * *

The hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint is the closest thing to heaven on earth, especially after nearly a day of nonstop driving. And they're playing Guns N' Roses for crying out loud, Axl Rose whining "Better" from the sound system. I only wish they'd turn it up, the meek fools; the volume's turned to a setting that would make elevator music proud.

Choosing a tall pinewood table in the back corner, I wolf down a cheeseburger and a basket of waffle fries, all the while keeping a watchful eye on my bike outside the diner's fingerprint-smeared windows. Even if I like to, as they say, "stir the waters" and "play with fire," it doesn't mean I do it _all _the time. This time around I have to be careful; if I'm to find Julia, I can't afford any delays caused by brash decision-making. So, I keep my eyes lowered and open my mouth only to eat. It's hard, but I manage it.

"Hello Hwoarang."

Freezing mid chew, I feel a vicious chill envelop me. Trying to relax, I swallow the rest of my burger, making no effort to respond to the speaker—as if I have a voice. That has frozen too along with my courage.

Jin Kazama pulls up a stool at my table, a dark smile on his lips. Except this isn't exactly the socially inept, moody rival I was once determined to defeat. It's his voice, face and hair, but there's something…_else_…present. Kazama looks immaculate, as always; donning an iron pressed, sterile white, button down long-sleeved shirt, dark jeans and shined boots, he embodies that rich, sullen Japanese prick I loathed long ago. His black hair is still gelled up into that corny-ass spike and, judging from the stench, he even took the time to spray on some cologne.

Breaking Benjamin's "Dance with the Devil" blares over the little diner this time, but no one seems to notice the sudden change in volume. My eyes dart to the demon sitting across from me, perched like a gargoyle atop his stony tower; he only smirks, the music's volume decreasing a couple notches.

"Throw one of your little tantrums and I'll kill you and everyone in this room," he says with the same smirk, as if inquiring after my wellbeing, or asking about the weather.

I believe him completely. Keeping quiet, I gradually meet his eyes, which flash red—or perhaps it is a mere flicker of the sunlight. My heart starts beating faster then. The feeling of being devoured overwhelms me, my meal now sitting like stones in my belly, weighing me down and rooting me to the spot. But I keep still, trying in vain to disguise my fear and rage.

"Good boy," the monster says, eyes flashing with amusement.

Ever the normal little human, he flags down a waitress and orders a drink. The woman eyes him all the while, licking up his honey charm like chocolate syrup on sticky fingers.

When I finally find my voice I can't resist the sarcasm.

"Nice outfit, Kazama. Did your dead mommy tell you to douse yourself in that dollar store stink too?"

"Careful now," the demon warns, wagging a clawed finger at me. "Julia's life is on the line."

"You wouldn't. You want her for yourself."

Jin laughs, retracting his talons. "Of course I do. But it doesn't mean she won't have to bleed a little. Nobody's exempt from that."

My fists clench underneath the table, and I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from pummeling him right then and there.

"How are you sleeping these days, Hwoarang?" That snide smile again.

"Just _peachy_, Edgar Allan Poe. Your version of the Tell Tale Heart is Pulitzer worthy_._ But you might wanna quit it with the cheesy animals."

Jin doesn't even try to conceal his blood red eyes now, the faint shadows of black markings taking form on his forehead like ink blots on parchment paper.

"You know why I'm here," he says after a moment, downing the rest of his beverage.

"You wanted to know how I was sleeping. Kinda homo, don't you think?"

Jin's eyes smolder with hatred; the glass cup cracks in his grip.

"If you reunite with Julia, or so much as try to find her, I'll kill you."

How original.

"Fuck you."

He nods, tracing the rim of his empty cup. "You like pain I see. Don't worry. I'll give you plenty."

I lean in closer. "Fuck. You."

The Japanese man—demon—cocks his head, eyeing me with revulsion and perhaps even the slightest bit of interest. I can't tell which, but either way I have his absolute attention.

"She didn't want to get pregnant," he begins. This time it's my turn to eye him strangely.

"She married him, the man who impregnated her, and gave birth to a son that she thought she loved. But domestic life wasn't for her. Motherhood wasn't for her."

My insides grow cold. Shut up. Shutupshutupshut_up_.

"Soon she discovered that she wasn't happy and never would be. Her husband couldn't satisfy her in bed, and he didn't make enough money. He was always at work, a low-wage job kissing someone's ass in a tall office building. And when he wasn't, he seemed too tired and distant to simply talk to her about his day. Her son was always nagging, always seeking her attention, leeching off of her for money and toys and food, and she grew to despise him too.

"But one day a man came into her life, a strong, handsome man that satisfied her in all ways. She loved his confidence, his money and oh his hands, the way he touched her and mouthed her between her legs, making her scream and—"

Knocking the table and chair over, I lunge for the demon, landing several kicks to his teeth and neck before his clawed hands have me by the throat.

"_My _mother may be dead," he snarls, a forked tongue snaking out from between long fangs. "But she _loved_ me."

"Go to hell!" I wheeze, sneaking a front snap kick to his ribcage. The demon doesn't seem to feel the attack; he laughs instead, his hold tightening.

"Ironic choice of insult, don't you think?" he cackles.

I look around the diner, frantic for someone to call the cops, scream or _something_. But nobody seems to notice the now black-winged demon choking me to death.

"If you go near her, I'll kill you. That's a promise."

Then he vanishes, leaving behind a single black feather, as if serving as a reminder of his warning.

But we all know I'm not the obedient type.

The moment Jin disappears I start scrambling. I have to find Julia before Jin does. That's the only thought going through my mind right now.

Once I'd managed to fling a twenty at the waitress—"But sir, your change—"; _"Keep the goddamn change!_"—I all but break the front door as I sprint for my bike, a bit apologetic that I'm about to use and abuse the poor machine for all its worth.

"Come on," I snarl as the bike stalls, grumbling as if it already knows I'm about to push it to its limits. "God _damn_ it! _Come on_!"

The motorcycle finally roars to life, growling obedience to my admonitions. Speeding into the road, I exit onto the freeway towards Oregon, hoping to God, fate, spirits, chance or whatever the hell is watching, to keep Julia safe.


	10. Sacred

**Note, May 31, 2012: **Apparently, Fanfiction has been on a deleting spree for stories with explicit sexual material. My story, 'Something Real,' is gone because of this petty rule. So, to save 'Love Found' from eradication, I heavily edited this chapter. Meaning, there's pretty much no hot sex, just implied hot sex. Sucks for my readers, but it is what it is. I still have a copy of the original lemon scene, though, so if any of you are interested in reading it just message me or something. Ta ta, Fanfiction, and kindly go **_screw yourselves. _**Pun intended.

* * *

_You trick your lovers that you're wicked and divine  
**You may be a sinner, but your innocence is mine**  
**Please me,** show me how it's done  
**Tease me, you are the one**_

_I want to reconcile the **violence in your heart**  
I want to recognize your beauty is **not just a mask  
**I want to exorcise the **demons from your past**  
I want to satisfy the **undisclosed desires in your heart**_

_"Undisclosed Desires_" – Muse

* * *

**Chapter 10: Sacred**

**Julia**

Three days in Portland pass like a weary sigh.

Among the city's eclectic magicians, I feel wonderfully invisible, just another drifter able to vanish at a whim into whirlpools of people.

But I can't keep hiding.

Today I bid farewell to Portland and its modern shadows in exchange for the alluring forests of Mount Hood, one of Oregon's dormant volcanoes. The locals say the camping grounds are beautiful, the creeks and the woods pristine, as are the hot springs, though marauding tourists are known to cavort in the same areas—nothing I can't handle. I prefer things untamed anyway.

The camping grounds I choose sit next to a creek and small waterfall cradled by smooth, gray rock and moss-painted trees. It makes the place a lot colder, but I feel safer with rushing water nearby. The belief is that evil spirits don't like water. Water is sacred after all, a medium between worlds, and is purer when in motion. It's what Ya'atsos and Michelle always said when it rained, or when we happened upon hidden streams in our desert valleys; I'm not about to doubt them now.

Using my backpack as a pillow, I pull my sweatshirt hood over my head and wrap the Navajo blanket closer around me. The forest is dark now, but the crackle of the fire I'd built and the nearby torrents of water instill peace. I stare into the fire, watching the orange and gold-white flames tango and tangle into one another, spitting sparks and cloudy fingers of smoke, like long hair in a vicious wind.

Gabriel and our friends sat around a fire like this one once, under a star-pierced desert sky huddled in our sheep's wool blankets, like storybook Indians weaving tapestries with our tongues. All we had to do to complete the stereotype was dance around the fire naked and swap war paint. Gabe and his cousins had wanted to for laughs, but I made them shut up and listen to my stories. Aunt Cora taught me well the art of oral storytelling; Gabe clutched at his blankets in fear every time I leaped out at him as a conniving skinwalker or bloodthirsty witch, as coyote with treacherous riddles.

I think about my best friend then. Christie's infectious laughter and radiant smile fills my mind, comforting me. I wonder how she's doing. I wonder if she thinks about me too, the little nerd too interested in art and books to dance with boys in high school. I wish she were here now so I could tell her about Hwoarang. Christie, my beautiful friend, I wish you were here to tell me I'm strong.

Those memories, those times taken for granted, still haunt my heart.

Night has a way of pulling forth all things you'd thought you'd forgotten or discarded

"Once, during a thunderstorm…" I whisper to nothing in particular.

To the fire, maybe, to the moon and her silver belly, to myself in my woolen nest, to the night demons and lost love spirits.

"…when lightning turned the world white…"

My own story turned fable and folktale overnight.

"…there was a crane who befriended a wolf."

The fire chuckles in response. The night air offers silence. I feel a breeze ruffle my hair, smooth over my cheek, vanish. I imagine its Gabriel come by for a midnight tale, just like old times.

"Wolf and Crane are natural enemies, so at first Crane was afraid of the Wolf. At any moment he could eat her. He wasn't Coyote, the trickster, but he looked a bit like Coyote, and she knew of Coyote's ways."

I don't know how long I told into nothing. Perhaps it isn't wise to speak to no one in the dark, as it can invite bad things in the night. Someone, something, is always listening. But I am beyond superstition. I have already invited the worst evil upon me after all, and sooner or later he will find me.

"…But then Crane fell in love with Wolf. It was unnatural, this way of feeling, and Crane thought Wolf loved her back. But he turned his teeth on her…"

In the distance, I hear the low hum of a motor approaching the camping grounds, probably nearby hikers returning from the hot springs.

"Though Crane should have known better than to fall in love with a predator, Mother Earth and her mate, Father Sky, took pity on her. They turned her white feathers black, marking her as a reminder to never make the same mistake. Instead of punishing her, they allowed her to keep her wings so she could fly away and start anew."

The breeze softens, coaxes the fire to burn brighter.

"Crane left Wolf and hoped she would never see him again. But the truth was, she missed her Wolf, and wished she could follow him."

The sound of rustling leaves and breaking twigs makes me halt my storytelling. Fear grips my body like a vice. Perhaps it's just a camper who's lost their way. But the sounds—the footsteps—become louder, more purposeful. Rising quickly from my makeshift bed, I reach for the buffalo knife in my boot, my breathing coming in rapid bursts. Standing to full height, I unsheathe my knife and find Alexander's pouch of earth in my pocket.

I see a flash of red.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

**Hwoarang**

"Hey."

For the first time, I see unbridled emotions zigzag across Julia's face, the firelight contorting her expression into a haunting mask of rage, sorrow, bewilderment, pain…

"I found you," I utter when she continues to stare, her buffalo knife pointed at my chest.

When she still doesn't respond, I move slowly toward her, my hand reaching for the knife.

"Julia—"

Suddenly, as if snapping back to her senses, the Native woman swings the knife, carving a crescent moon into my forearm.

"Damn it!" I curse, recoiling.

"Stay away from me," Julia hisses, brandishing the blade once more.

"Okay, okay. I deserved that," I relent, clutching at my bleeding arm. "But let's talk, okay? Let's put the knife down and talk."

"About how you lied to me and deserted me?"

Julia lunges again, but I grab her arm this time, flinging the knife from her hands. But Julia's prepared. Pivoting in my grip, she seizes my wrist and twists, loosening my hold on her. In another lightning fast movement, she elbows me in the gut, sweeps my legs out from under me, then straddles my back once I hit the ground, forcing my face into dirt.

"I thought I told you," she snarls, "to stay away from me."

Coughing, I manage to utter, "I. Can't. Not anymore."

"How sweet. You wanna kiss and make up?"

"Yes."

"Bullshit."

"Just hear me out. Please?"

'Please'? I haven't said _that _in a long time.

"How the hell did you find me, anyway? You've been following me, haven't you?"

"Yes, okay! I followed you, but only 'cause Jin told me he was coming for you!"

I don't dare tell her I would have gone after her either way.

After what seems like eons, my neck cramping and mouth and nose filled with dirt, Julia lets me up.

"You saw Jin?" she asks, incredulous.

"Yeah," I reply, wiping dirt off my face. "But I'm not telling you anything else until you hear me out."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"We have to talk about _us_, Julia."

"Well according to you, there never was an 'us.'"

"I was lying! I was—God, I was afraid, okay?"

"Then what's the _truth_, Hwoarang? You tell me what I should believe, because apparently I've been wrong this whole time."

"Truth is—the truth is—"

Fuck. _Fuck_. Just _say_ it.

"—I'm in love with you. I've always been in love with you."

Wait for the elbow in the face…none?

"Ican'tstopthinkingaboutyou,andI'msorryIeverleft."

I nearly stutter over the confession like a prepubescent teenager asking for a girl's phone number. But I ignore the look of disdain on Julia's face and plow on.

"I know you don't believe me. But I care about you more than anything."

"You know what—"

"No just _listen_. Give me a chance!"

"I did."

The pain in Julia's eyes betrays the hatred she tries to exude—but she's a stubborn one. Even if she still wants me, she's perfectly capable of ditching me without so much as a glance. She's already done it once.

Christ, this is definitely my last chance.

"I know," I murmur, biting my lip. "I'm an asshole. I'm a _coward_. But I'm like you too, okay? No, really, I am. Don't give me that look. I'm fucking angry and bitter, and no matter how different you think you are from me, you're right, but you're wrong too, Julia. I understand you more than you know. No, no, hear me out, okay? We were both_ screwed over_ by people we love, but this time _I _did you believe it or not, it's killing me."

"Hwoarang—"

"You're the best thing that happened to me. And what I'm trying to say is…I'm trying to say I'm sorry. And..."

Just say it. "...I love you. Even if you don't take me back, I can't leave now. I'm not ever leaving again."

The ensuing silence is palpable. Did I just fuck everything up again? Or is she…can she possibly…will we…?

From across the fire I await Julia's reply, her face stony.

Finally: "That was the best lie I've ever heard."

Shutting my eyes, I clutch at my hair to keep the anger in check.

"Damn it, Julia, what will it take to make you believe me!" I shout.

"Please leave."

"Look, _I'm not Jin_, okay? I made mistakes, but I'm here now. I came back, because I-fuck, because I _need_ you. Please. Believe me."

"No," she retorts, but her voice cracks. "I can't, not again."

"You can't or you won't?"

"Just go, Hwoarang."

"No."

"Go!" she exclaims, but her icy mask cracks, melts, as her shrill demand collapses into a sob.

At first her crying is quiet, controlled, but escalates to heart-wrenching, shoulder-wracking weeping, just like when we first kissed in that Montana clearing. Sidestepping the fire, I'm at her side in an instant and take her mouth in mine. She protests with a shove and strings of curse words, but I persist; seizing her before she can flee, I press Julia against me and kiss her again, gentler this time, but insistent. Still she fights me, and still I hold her tighter. But when my mouth abandons her lips for the tender curve of her neck, Julia moans, momentarily forgetting that she's supposed to be struggling for her freedom.

"Hwoarang," she whimpers in a last resistance. "No. You hurt me."

"I know, and I'm sorry," I reply before kissing her again. "But now I'm going to make you feel good—if you let me."

Pausing, I wait for her to retaliate, but the Navajo woman remains still. Once again, I kiss those tears. When her sobbing abates, I loosen my hold and allow Julia to embrace me back. She responds carefully at first, peppering my mouth and cheeks with dainty, uncertain kisses, so I slow my pace to match hers, responding to her affection with equal gentility.

Only when I pull off my shirt and begin to tug at hers does Julia hesitate.

"Um, I…" she begins. "I haven't exactly done this before."

I can't help but get turned on by that. So Jin missed out, eh? Better make it worth remembering then.

"It's okay," I whisper, holding her close. "Just let me do everything. You tell me what feels nice."

"Wait—"

But I've already kissed her again, silencing every protest until she moans beneath my mouth. This time Julia removes her shirt herself, her breathing quickening. I move to her breasts then, undoing the bra with ease so I can taste them. When her knees buckle slightly, I catch her about the waist and lower her onto the blanket. As she recovers from my kisses, I undo her jeans and, too impatient to fully remove them, reach between her legs to the hot flesh hidden there. Gasping, Julia stiffens, squirms, but clamps her yet jeaned thighs about my hands. The look of pure ecstasy on her face almost drives me over the edge.

That's right, Jules. Surrender.

"For once, Julia," I say, breathless, "Let go."

You're safe now. I won't let anything hurt you.

Without a word, she pulls me down atop her.

* * *

Waking up a few hours before she does, I take the rare opportunity to watch her in repose. To my amusement, Julia sleeps like the dead. I really worked her, the poor girl—not that I regret it or anything. The memory of last night is enough to make me hard again. But instead of rousing her for round two—or three, or ten—I fumble for my clothes and head for the waterfall to wash up.

Like Julia, the sun's barely awake. A few shy rays peak up over the trees, spattering leaves and creek bed with red and gold kernels of light. The water is like a slap in the face though, and does its job of waking me up. Just as I finish pulling my shirt over my head, I see something that makes my blood turn as icy as that waterfall.

Barely twenty feet away, on the other side of the rocky creek, stands a coyote. The only reason I know it's a coyote is because it's exactly like the one in my nightmare. With its hackles raised and fangs bared, spit foaming from its jaws, the coyote stares me down as if it knows exactly who I am. It growls low in its throat, a look of murder in narrowed eyes, and I know that in one leap it can have me by the neck.

Oddly, however, the coyote doesn't dare enter the water, let alone allow the misty spray of thundering waterfall to sprinkle his coat. He doesn't even try to jump across. But, I don't linger to discover why the predator abhors water. I can already feel my heart beating a frenzy in my chest, as if fearful that my nightmare will finally realize itself.

Rushing back to Julia, my hair still a matted, wet mess, I rouse her as gently as I can.

"Julia, love," I murmur, "It's time to wake up. Time to go."

It's a good thing she can read me like a book, because in seconds she's awake.

"What's wrong?" she asks groggily, searching for her clothes.

"Um…"

"Hwoa_rang_."

That _look _again. What a way to start our reunion.

"Get dressed first," I reply, handing Julia her clothing.

As she dresses, I help pack her things, then kick dirt into the fire pit to make sure it stays out. My eyes keep darting to the creek, even though the coyote is gone, and then to the woods around us, to the hills and rocks that border the camping grounds. I thought things were going to be all right. Wait, who am I kidding? I may have won Julia back, but there's still her psycho-demonic ex to contend with.

Julia slides on her boots, swipes through her hair with a brush, stands—and winces.

"Hey, hey," I soothe, a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Julia looks away, but I catch a glimpse of a blush. Oh. _That. _

"How long is this," she winces again, "supposed to last?"

"What?" I ask, feigning ignorance as a grin erupts on my mouth.

"You know..."

"I'm sorry, I don't follow."

Blushing again, Julia mutters, "The...soreness."

I know I shouldn't find her discomfort so amusing, but she's unbearably adorable when she's shy. I don't think I've ever seen her like this.

"Oh _that_? I can kiss it better, you know," I chuckle, my hands reaching for her waist.

"So? What did you see?" Julia demands, quickly changing the subject.

Still elusive, I see.

Sighing, I reply, "There was a coyote by the creek when I went to wash myself."

"What?"

"A coyote. For some reason it wouldn't touch the water. It just kept…watching me."

The fear on her face is alarming, because this time Julia doesn't try to hide it.

"Aren't animals supposed to be afraid of humans? Because I swear this thing looked like it wanted to kill me," I ask, hoping that I'm just being paranoid with the whole bloodthirsty-coyote-out-for-my-heart theory.

"This isn't an ordinary animal."

"It's him, isn't it?"

Julia shoots me a look, as if surprised that I'd figured it out so quickly.

"Yes. It's Jin."

"Was he here the whole time do you think?"

"Knowing him, yes."

"So he saw us—he saw us having—"

"Yes."

"That motherfu—"

"We need to get moving. Now."

She's already making her way to my motorcycle, but before she starts getting restless, like always, I take her by the hand and pull her close.

"We're doing this together, right?" I ask, our eyes meeting. "No matter what happens?"

Julia throws her arms around me. We hold one another for a while like that, she on tiptoe, my face buried in her neck, until the Native woman pulls away with a sigh. With a touch so gentle it warms me to my toes, she cups my cheek in one hand.

"Thanks for coming back."

I kiss her, already hungry for more, and Julia responds in kind.

"Okay, you perv," she giggles, as my hand reaches under her sweatshirt. "We really need to go now."

But before we mount my bike, Julia removes the smallest pinches of dirt from the pouch that Blackfoot shaman gave us. Holding it loosely in the palm of her hand, she chants something in her language, waves her hand gently over the one containing the dirt, and then, with one breath of air, blows the dirt over the now ashen campfire. She repeats the same motions at the waterfall, and to the nearby trees, before rejoining me.

"It's part hex, part cleansing spell," she explains. "It won't stop Jin from finding us, but it'll confuse him for a day or two. It also protects whoever camps here next."

She looks up into the sky, as if searching for the winged devil, and then shoves the pouch back into her pocket.

"Julia?"

"Yes?"

"I dreamt about a coyote. You know, that time you asked me about my nightmare—"

"I know."

Of course she knows.

"When I saw Jin, he said he'd hurt you if I came in contact with you. Now that he knows I'm here, maybe I should—"

"He can't hurt me anymore than he already has, Hwoarang. Besides, you being here is a serious blow to his ego."

I laugh, starting the ignition. My bike growls to life and Julia wraps her arms about my waist.

"Let's go."


End file.
